


Diplomatic Affairs

by Rungian



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cabbages, Dubious Politics, Explicit Sexual Content, Imprisonment, Inappropriately Timed Comedy, Light Bondage, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 58,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rungian/pseuds/Rungian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quite by accident, Vimes finds Vetinari in a bit of a predicament as he negotiates with some "foreign ambassadors". Unfortunately, it's not the sort of predicament that one necessarily escapes unscathed. Vetinari is predictably Vetinari about it all, and Vimes just doesn't hold with that sort of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. International Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I try and write a quick bit of V/V smut. Powerless Vetinari is very much my kink.
> 
> Warning for graphic depictions of non-sexual torture. All sexual content is in Chapter 2 (and now bonus Chapter 3!). 
> 
> Undying thanks to my beta readers, Kon (who knows nothing of Discworld) and Creys (who does).

There was the sound of someone swatting a fly.

 

Vimes opened his eyes. At least, his brain told him that he had opened his eyes, but his eyes themselves were having trouble accepting this as fact, as all they could see was the same inky blackness they saw when they were closed. Vimes briefly contemplated that he might have gone blind, but that minor concern was quickly overshadowed by the rather larger problem of the splitting headache that was carving his head in two. It felt like Fred Colon had taken to living in whatever space was there between his brain and his skull and was trying to bodily squeeze himself out of one ear while Mrs Colon squeezed herself in through the other.

 

He rolled over on to his front. This turned out to be a terrible decision, he realised, vomiting heartily as a bright mixture of multicoloured flowers danced past his suffering vision and the floor seemed to tip up by forty degrees or so, leaving him feeling as though he was lying on an uncomfortably steep slope inhabited by psychedelic nightmares.

 

Staring at the rough stone floor and _wishing_ it would stop moving beneath him, Vimes tried to vaguely recall what had happened.

 

He'd been in the Patrician's Palace before the world had collapsed, he remembered that much. Rather unusually, the request for an audience had come from Drumknott rather than Vetinari, but the effect was much the same – attend a Palace he didn't really want to go to for a meeting with someone he didn't really want to meet. Drumknott had been anxious, but had been trying quite skilfully to conceal it. He probably would have succeeded in front of any other Watchman, except possibly Carrot, who could be unexpectedly perceptive, and Angua, who could smell hidden emotions from two months ago. Vimes had seen a brief glimpse of the back of Vetinari's head through a door which had been left ajar, and that in itself rankled his suspicions because Vetinari always kept the doors _closed_ to give the fears of the people on the other side of them time to build up.

 

But... it hadn't been Vetinari, had it? It had been Charlie. Drumknott had explained that His Lordship was _otherwise engaged_ , and he had pronounced the italics. Vimes had had the distinct impression that whatever Vetinari was _otherwise engaged_ in, it was a surprise to the clerk.

 

And then... Drumknott had taken him to the Oblong Office and asked him to search it. Search it for what? But Drumknott had gone, and Charlie had gone with him. Vimes had shrugged and lit a cigar and searched for half an hour, finding exactly the Spartan and humourless office he had expected, with absolutely nothing out of the ordinary... and then something _had_ come out of the ordinary and there had been a searing pain in his head and blackness in front of his vision. Vimes presumed that was when he had lost consciousness. Still, that was to be expected. Someone had apparently tried to cave his skull in with an inkwell. There were still traces of ink on his shoulders and in his hair.

 

Vimes propped himself up on his elbows, but this also proved to be a mistake as his mind exploded again1. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head with one hand and felt, on the side of his skull some bit above his ear, a lump so impressive that, if compared to the size of an egg, it would have been a good meal.

 

Resisting the urge to puke again, Vimes felt about his person. Some cursory attempt had been made to disarm him2, but aside from the aforementioned second head growing above his ear, all his limbs seemed blissfully intact and undamaged.

 

The fly swatter was at it again, this time grunting with exertion. Vimes blinked slowly. It must be a big fly.

 

As vague grey shapes loomed out of the murk proving that blindness was just a fleeting paranoia, Vimes was thankfully able to ground himself a little. The floor no longer swam like a drowning dog every time he dared to turn his head and, very slowly, the nausea started to recede.

 

Sadly the headache did not.

 

There was the sound of another fly meeting death. Each slap of the swatter caused the ache to swell through Vimes' head, throbbing through his sinuses like a hangover. In fact, Vimes felt very much like he did have a hangover, only it was without the prior feeling of drunken invincibility and was therefore almost everything bad about alcohol without allowing him any of the good. Bollocks to _that_.

 

Slowly, Vimes pushed himself to his feet. He swayed a little and threw out a hand to steady himself, gratified when he found there was a convenient wall to lean against.

 

With every second, his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom. Enough for him to realise that there was not one wall, there were four, rather closer together than he would have liked. One of them had a small window that was letting in the dregs of some dusty, recycled light and one of them had heavy-looking metal door.

 

It was, in every sense, a prison. There were even bars on the window, an unnecessary detail considering that the window was eight feet off the ground and less than a foot square. Not even Stronginthearm or Cheery would have been able to squeeze through it.

 

The room was empty except for a small firkin next to him, which seemed to contain an amount of water of questionable freshness, and...

 

Vimes' eyes focussed slowly on the fuzzy shape of the man who was standing by the wall on the other side of the room. It was not a big room and he was not that far away, but the stagnant murk and the pressing headache made noticing details difficult. Vimes could see enough to tell that the figure was wearing a cloak with a hood, and common sense told him that he must be the man swatting the fly. Which meant that the strange, misshapen lump on the floor must be said fly. Huh, he was right, it _was_ pretty big...

 

With some vague intention of asking where he was and what had happened and why his head felt as though there was a Klatchian dancing in it, Vimes started to stumble towards the man before his suspicious bastard mind caught up with him and warned that someone who was present when he woke up aching and angry in a cell after being assaulted _might not be all that friendly_.

 

It was a good thing that Vimes stopped in his tracks. His mind had time to realise that the fly swatter was, in fact, a whip with several tails and the weird, bent shape on the floor was a person. The end of each whip tail glinted in the half-light, giving away the presence of metal hooks fastened there. The hooks were designed to rip the skin, to scour flesh from bone. Vimes had heard of such implements being taken on to ships to promote discipline at sea. Normally just the _presence_ of the scourge was enough to ensure the hands remained passive and obedient. The poor devil in front of him probably didn't have much of a back left.

 

Blinking again, Vimes took another slow, tentative step forwards. As much as the bile rose in him at the pathetic bundle on the floor and its hooded assailant, he knew that the least sensible thing for him to do would be to rush in without understanding the situation and risk that terrible weapon tearing into his own body. Probably he would be risking his health for a dead man anyway; if the scourge didn't kill him, the infection and blood loss surely would. Besides, the victim's profile was just visible, and there was something.... something about...

 

Vimes' jaw dropped and he almost vomited again. Despite an unhealthy pallor and slight sunken look, the sharpness of the jaw and the darkness of the eyes and the grown-out remnants of that dratted _beard_ were unmistakeable.

 

It was Lord Vetinari.

 

Vimes' mind struggled to comprehend something that he instinctively knew he _couldn't_ be seeing, yet was there in front of him. Maybe the blow to the head _had_ knocked him silly.

 

Vetinari's hands were bound by rope, his wrists secured to a thick wooden post that rose no more than ten inches from the ground. This meant that he was forced either to remain in his current position, his knees folded beneath his chest and his back exposed in a curve for the whip, or lie flat on his front on the dirty stone floor.

 

Vimes wondered if he could tackle the man before he could strike with the weapon. He certainly could have, if he had not been half-insensible with the pain in his head. Was it worth trying?

 

A second hooded man detached himself from the wall – Vimes hadn't noticed him leaning there still and silent – and hissed something to Vetinari in a language that Vimes didn't understand. When Vetinari failed to respond, the man reached down and took a fistful of the Patrician's dark hair, yanking the pale head up and forcing Vetinari to look him in the eye. Vetinari flashed a lightning expression that, though tired and strained, was almost recognisable as one of his brief but frightening smiles. With a look of disgust, the man let go of Vetinari's hair and melted back into the half-shadow.

 

It was a good thing he hadn't decided to play the hero, Vimes thought to himself. He would have struggled taking down _one_ able-bodied man in this condition, let alone _two_...

 

Vimes could see that Lord Vetinari was naked from the waist up, his back and sides gleaming with sweat and blood and smeared with filth. It was impossible to tell, from this distance and in this light, whether the Patrician had been purposefully stripped or whether his clothing had simply disintegrated under the assault. How long had they been whipping him? Presumably for some time before Vimes awoke, if the labyrinth of welts and cuts on the man's pale skin was any indication.

 

The scourge lashed against Vetinari's back again, ripping away another strip of skin and flesh. Vetinari's body jolted with a grunt, his head bowed further over his bound hands.

 

The man with the whip placed his booted foot on the back of Vetinari's head and pushed the Patrician's face into a floor strewn with rat droppings. He gave Vimes a smug grin and a sardonic bow before leaving the room, followed by the silent, shadowy second figure. The door slammed behind them with a depressing finality and a _click_ that sounded all too much like that of a lock.

 

Vetinari raised his head, spitting grit and muck. He had some blood on his face, but it seemed mostly to be from a split lip that was already halfway healed. The nastier part of Vimes' mind suggested that Vetinari had probably brought that one on himself by giving one of his usual smartarse snark answers. These thugs didn't look like the types who had much in the way of patience or humour for Vetinari's usual habit of talking people in circles.

 

“Ah... Vimes...” said Vetinari. The tone was recognisable, but the voice was weak and faint, hoarse through lack of water and ill-use. Vetinari's words came far slower than usual, and he occasionally had to pause and catch his breath. “I see... I have the pleasure of your company.”

 

“What the _bloody hell_ is going on?!”

 

“I'm astounded you haven't managed to... work it out for yourself, Commander. You have been kidnapped. Though, I suppose, adultnapped might be a more accurate-”

 

“The lump on my head told me _that_ ,” growled Vimes irritably, bending down to study the knots around Lord Vetinari's wrists. “I _meant_ what the hell are _you_ doing here? Did I accidentally stumble into your evening entertainment? Should I show up to appointments wearing chains and straps and a ball-gag?”

 

“I would urge you not to,” coughed Vetinari, somewhat alarmed. “It would make your _long_ and _detailed_ reports so very difficult to understand.”

  
“ _Listen, you-_ ”

 

“Unfortunately,” Vetinari interrupted Vimes, his voice quiet but still powerful enough to bring instant silence, “I have demonstrated a severe lack of diligence.... which I am sure I would be thrilled to tell you about if you would be so kind as to help me up.”

 

Vetinari's breath hitched suddenly and a violent shiver racked his thin frame. Vimes blinked as his brain remembered that, despite his ability to effortlessly be the most infuriating, obfuscating individual on the Disc, Lord Vetinari was only human, and currently a human in a considerable predicament.

 

“They've been beating you with a flail?” Vimes glanced at the Patrician's torn back as he bent down over the rope. It looked like a particularly clumsy dancer with knives for feet had stumbled a crude tango on it. Vetinari smiled mirthlessly.

 

“They _were_ using a switch, your grace, but unfortunately it broke.”

 

Vimes muttered something about Vetinari's skin being as iron as his personality. Vetinari tactfully pretended not to hear.

 

The rope chafed and pinched as Vimes' fingers fumbled with the knot around the post. The Patrician stayed patiently silent as Vimes cursed and muttered to himself and tried to ignore the screaming agony from the lump on his head. The knot was good, the rope stiff, and he had not quite yet gained his night eyes so he was working almost blind in the murky half-light, one of his eyes almost closed by the persistent throbbing ache behind it.

 

“There!” he said with some smug satisfaction as the rope fell away...

 

… from the post alone. Vetinari's captors, it seemed, had not been foolish enough to tie the man's hands together and to the post with the same knot.

 

Vetinari straightened up with a groan, and Vimes heard the click as the Patrician stretched his back. “Thank you, your grace. You have done me a mercy.”

 

“I'm not done yet,” muttered Vimes as he started trying to free the slender white hands.

 

Ten minutes later, he was still trying, with nothing but a frayed edge of rope and raw, reddened, bloody fingers to show for his effort.

 

“Good g _ods_ ,” he exclaimed for the fourth time, throwing his hands up in frustration. This was also a mistake, he realised, as for the second time coloured stars burst before his eyes and the lump on his skull throbbed in protest.

 

Vetinari remained with his hands slightly outstretched towards the briefly-dazed Vimes. “Will you be trying again, your grace, or have you satisfied yourself for now?”

 

Vimes' temper rose. Did Vetinari think he was doing this for _fun,_ just as a way to pass the time? Perhaps as a headache cure? “You do it then,” he muttered sullenly, “because I am clearly enjoying myself too much and I have nothing better to do than to scrape my skin off doing a favour for an ingrate.” A slight nagging feeling prodded him, crying that he would never have voiced the thought out loud if Vetinari's hands were free. He shooed the thought away guiltily.

 

To his surprise, the Patrician smiled at him. “Do you know why our hooded friends have chosen rope instead of shackles, your grace, when common sense suggests that shackles would be the stronger, wiser choice?”

 

“No, and I don't care.”

 

“Shackles,” continued Vetinari unperturbed, “will not mould. They are easy to slip out of, particularly for thin wrists and when the metal is wet. Rope has a natural friction which makes slipping the bonds far more inconvenient, and it expands when wet to compensate for the wasting of one's wrists over a long confinement.”

 

“Why should it matter if it's wet?” Vimes growled before he could stop himself, “Sure, it's not exactly satin sheets in here, but we're hardly swimming in damp. I guess you could dip it in the water barrel, or smear it in rat sh-”

 

“In fact,” said Vetinari quietly, “one could even suggest that the more the victim struggles, the more the rope ensures he is bound.”

 

Despite himself, Vimes found his gaze drawn back down to the Patrician's bound hands – and he winced. His eyes had finally fully accustomed to the gloom, and he could now clearly see that the rope was discoloured and swollen in places, though it was not with water. Vetinari's wrists were red and shiny, deep abrasions showing where he had unsuccessfully fought for freedom.

 

Vimes looked at his fingers, where the blood had dried in little clusters and was starting to peel away.

 

His clumsy fiddling with the knot must have caused the man pain. He wondered why Vetinari had not stopped him.

 

Certainly whoever had secured those bonds had realised that Vetinari with his hands free, even a Vetinari half-conscious and riddled with injuries, was one of the most dangerous men alive on the Disc, and every precaution had been taken to ensure that danger was not unleashed on those who had made it their enemy.

 

“What the _hell_ is going on?” asked Vimes in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “How long have you been in here?”

 

“Five days, I think. Possibly seven.”

 

“ _Seven-_ ”

 

“It is hard to tell exactly,” said the Patrician, as smoothly as he could with his voice so ragged. “The light from that window _does_ change with the hour, but retains an impressive monotone of grey and slightly lighter grey. Oh, and I fear I have spent at least some of my stay unconscious, so my timekeeping has, regrettably, suffered somewhat.”

 

Vimes stared. Five to seven days. No wonder Drumknott had been so anxious and yet so vague. It was hard to tell someone in plain Morporkian that the Patrician was missing if you didn't want that news spread around the entire city, even in an otherwise deserted and seemingly secure room like the Oblong Office. Drumknott had wanted Vimes to work out Vetinari was missing and _find him_...

 

Well, he'd done it, hadn't he? Just not in the order Drumknott had intended, and certainly not in a way that meant he could be of any use _resolving_ the situation. Here he was just another prisoner, though admittedly one with his hands free.

 

If he couldn't untie the Patrician, maybe he could do something else useful...

 

Thank the gods he hadn't been wearing one of his _nice_ shirts under his armour today, he thought to himself as he ripped a chunk of material from one of his sleeves and walked to the firkin to dip it in the water. Sybil would have become _passive aggressive_ at him if he had returned with one of his expensive Cowherd  & Edwards' shirts ripped to shreds and covered in various bodily fluids.

 

“Can I see your back, sir?” he asked, walking back to Vetinari. Vetinari blinked once and wordlessly turned his back on Vimes. It looked like a troll with a chisel had tried to play noughts-and-crosses on his body and, after finishing, had tried to scribble the board out. Confronted with the criss-cross of bleeding whip cuts, Vimes hesitated.

 

“Uh...”

 

“Don't worry about causing me pain, your grace,” came the Patrician's soft voice, “it is important that the wounds are cleaned.”

 

Starting in the top left, Vimes ran the damp cross as close as he dared to the edges of the topmost welt, wiping away grime and blood. Lord Vetinari's breathing hardly changed, but his muscles tensed and trembled the barest bit and if Vimes had been able to see his face, he would have seen the ice-coloured eyes close quickly. The skin beneath Vimes' hands was red and swollen.

 

Vimes continued cleaning the other man's back to the best of his abilities with dirty water and a dirty scrap of cloth. A number of questions fired themselves through his already-aching brain. He settled for the easiest.

 

“Why?”

 

“It appears... that some sort of sleeping draught was entered into my inkwell. _Very_ effective, I must say.”

 

“The inkwell,” said Vimes woodenly, suddenly remembering what he had been hit by. What a useful way to remove evidence; most of it had been smashed by his head and the lower rim of his helmet. Doubtless the Palace staff removing the ink stains from the Office floor would neglect to check them for traces of poison. The only traces remaining were on _him_ , and he hoped to remove them with a bath at the first possible opportunity.

 

He frowned. “You _drink_ your _ink_?”

 

Vetinari gave him a sharp look over his shoulder. The effect was somewhat diminished by the unavoidable wince that crossed his face as Vimes' cloth passed over one of the deeper wounds, where the hooks of the scourge had torn almost down to the bone.

 

“Aha. I suppose your ignorance can be... excused as, correct me if I am mistaken, you are not a man who writes a great deal.”

 

“No, I'm not.”

 

“I thought as much from reading... your written reports.” Vetinari was blissfully unable to see the look on Vimes' face. It was the sort of look that kept a city of criminals from committing crimes in his absence, for fear it would be turned on _them_. “When writing a great deal, it... becomes necessary to wet the bottom of the pen so the ink continues to flow.”

 

“So you lick the tip of the pen,” Vimes finished gloomily.

 

“Quite so.”

 

Vimes stood back, squeezing the damp scrap of shirt onto the floor. He almost dipped it into the water again to clean it, but held back when he realised that was their drinking supply. He didn't fancy keeping himself hydrated on a barrel of the Patrician's diluted blood.

 

“I... think I've done as much as I can,” he mumbled, dropping the cloth to the floor and wiping his hands on his trousers. “They're still bleeding, and the water won't help that.”

 

Vetinari nodded. He gave a soft groan as he slowly knelt down and eased himself into a sitting position. Vimes noticed he kept his back carefully away from the wall but let his head tilt back to rest against the stone. Vimes stared for a moment before sinking down the wall to sit next to the taller man.

 

“So a bunch of robed crazies kidnapped you so they could tie you to a post and beat you to shit? Ha,” he laughed mirthlessly, “I _almost_ preferred the dragon! What the hell are they after?”

 

“Information,” answered Vetinari quietly. Another shiver ran through his thin body.

 

Vimes did not consider himself a natural diplomat, but even he knew that this was not the way that foreign affairs were normally conducted. Standard procedure when desiring information from a foreign country was to send in poshly-dressed spies and call them ambassadors, not to kidnap the local tyrant and use him as a target dummy.

 

“Have you ever heard of Nanoka, Commander?”

 

“Nanoka?”

 

“It is not quite a country,” Vetinari closed his eyes and pressed his fingers together as though he were praying. “It is a principality of the Agatean Empire, very close to Ting Ling, but it wishes for independence and its citizens – Nanokatians – have decidedly inventive and, from their track record, _successful_ ways of gaining what they want. They have already managed to force Agatean leadership into preliminary negotiations, which is impressive for a geographic area that has only recently ceased burning their elderly to try and divine the weather.”

 

“Ting Ling? That's the other side of the Disc! What's that got to do with Ankh-Morpork?”

 

“Possibly they want Ankh-Morpork to fund their military endeavours, or support their rebellion,” Vetinari answered. “Who knows what goes on in the minds of desperate men, Commander.”

 

His tone of voice had not changed, but Vimes was practised enough in listening to the man and his stupid little inflections and his foibles and idiosyncrasies to know that Vetinari was being evasive.

 

“What do they want from _you_?”

 

“I could not say.”

 

“But you understand their language, don't you? You understand what they're saying? So what do they _want_?”

 

“I could not say.”

 

Vimes gave up. He had more chance getting Detritus to recite the Theory of Disc Polarity on a hot summer's day.

 

“One more thing, then,” he growled, leaning his own head back against the wall. “Why am _I_ here?”

 

Vetinari's tired voice sounded genuinely surprised.

 

“Why, Sir Samuel, I would have thought that was evident! Because, in all of Ankh-Morpork, you are the man most likely to find me!”

 

oOo

 

Vimes opened his eyes with a start when a lance of pain shot through his head and he realised he had dozed off. The light that came through the window was a slightly brighter grey than it had been. He understood what Vetinari meant about it being hard to tell the time of day.

 

Vetinari...

 

Vimes glanced next to him. Lord Vetinari was still sitting there, in the same position he had been when Vimes had closed his eyes. His lips were dry and parted, however, and his breath was laboured. Vimes was glad for this, as it was confirmation that he was still alive, and there was not visually much else to tell him that. The dingy light gave Vetinari a grey, waxy pallor that wouldn't have looked amiss on Reg Shoe.

 

Vimes hesitantly reached out and touched the man's brow – and pulled his hand back. The pale skin was hot and clammy, damp with sweat and the threat of fever.

 

“Ah, Vimes... you're awake,” grated the Patrician in a voice that did not sound like his. “I would like... some water.”

 

Vimes lifted the frail figure to his feet. It was a longer and more difficult process than it would normally be due to the fact that Vetinari was oozing disconcertingly and Vimes' hands, wet with blood and sweat and pus, slipped against the pale skin. More than once, the Patrician sank back down to his knees and Vimes had to readjust his grip and try again. It was with some grudging admiration that Vimes acknowledged Vetinari's toughness, as any noises utterly failed to escape him.

 

As the thin man unfolded laboriously upright and staggered towards the water firkin supported on Vimes' arm, something small and round dropped from the tattered shreds of his clothing and bounced twice on the floor. Vimes watched it with a jaundiced eye. It looked like a pill.

 

“What's that?”

 

“... Insurance,” Vetinari answered quietly, without looking at it.

 

“It's poison,” Vimes said flatly. Vetinari smiled wanly and, though he gave no verbal response, he did not need to. The lack of denial was confirmation enough. Vimes' temper rose.

 

“You bastard. You bloody _bastard_ ,” he snarled. “Why the hell am I bothering to clean your wounds and save you from fever, then? Poison? For what, are you too _vain_ to bear being seen reacting to treatment that would kill us mere _mortals_? Is your image of the untouchable bloody _tyrant_ so important to you?”

 

Vetinari raised his bound hands to shakily tap his forelock. “There are incidences... secrets in here, your grace, which cannot fall into the hands of Ankh-Morpork's worryingly numerous enemies.”

 

“ _You arrogant -”_

 

“For the good of the city,” Vetinari cut across him without missing a beat, though his voice remained as weak as his wasting body. “The wellbeing of Ankh-Morpork and its continuing stability are worth more than the life of one man. I thought you would have known that, your grace.” There was a slightly accusatory tone in his voice, as though he were a teacher gently chiding a child for forgetting his multiplication tables. “If our generous hosts had wanted me dead, I have no doubt that I would be. To a man, they are not squeamish. At current, I believe that while alive, I still have the value of whatever knowledge they perceive to be in my head. There is a great deal of knowledge in my head, your grace, and a great deal of that great deal would have serious repercussions for Ankh-Morpork were it to be... publicly released. For the moment, while I could hardly accuse my daily entertainment of being _pleasant_ , it is at least _bearable_. If, and I sincerely hope this is _not_ the case, that were to change, then I would cease to be of value to the city and, indeed, would be as dangerous as the secrets I could, and most likely would, spill.”

 

Vimes opened his mouth to shout at the man some more, and he paused. From somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he saw Carrot's face in front of him. _Personal is not the same as important_.

 

Who else would think like that, besides Carrot and Vetinari? Who else would put Ankh-Morpork, wretched cesspit of scum and selfishness that it was, above their own _life_? Vimes had always considered the city his, to a degree, but even he would draw the line at defending the daily lawless filth at personal cost, and he was far too cynical to believe the city would ever _thank_ him for his service.

 

Carrot was almost universally respected in Ankh-Morpork, if not actively liked. Vetinari... got by on being more feared than admired and more useful alive than dead, yet the amount he was willing to give protecting the very people who would throw him to the metaphorical wolves the instant the wind changed... who had _done so_ previously on a number of occasions...

 

“... No,” he choked out at last, the fires of rage dying down to a simmering, smouldering irritation tinged with the barest vestige of an empty sort of sadness.

 

“No?” enquired Vetinari mildly.

 

“No. What the hell happens if you do die? Who replaces you? You're a twisty bastard, but at least you let people be if they're innocent. Well, not guilty enough to bother anyone.” They _were_ talking about Ankh-Morpork, after all. “If the guilds start feuding, people will get in the way. People will get killed. If it was just you on the line, I wouldn't care -”

 

“How kind of you to say.”

 

“- but it's not just you. If you die in here, like this, to these... _people_ , then Ankh-Morpork dies with you. There'll be a civil war, and there won't be anything bloody civil about it!”

 

Vetinari was standing mostly without support now, though he was leaning heavier than he should be against the wall. Vimes took the opportunity to bend down and retrieve the small pill...

 

… which turned out to be a seed rather than a pill. Vimes held it between a thumb and forefinger. He knew nothing about poisons.

  
“Is it arsenic?” he asked, remembering the candles.

 

Vetinari coughed a sound which could have been a laugh.

 

“It is not. Arsenic, while blessedly easy to procure, is slow to act and has a remarkably high rate of survival if it expelled from the system quickly enough. What you hold in your hand, your grace, is the seed of a certain tree, which contains a natural component known as strychnine.”

 

“Strychnine,” Vimes repeated woodenly.

 

“Yes, Commander. I would advise against touching your mouth or your eyes until you have had a chance to wash your hands.”

 

He scoffed. “Is it really that potent?”

 

“Oh yes,” and Vetinari was deadly serious. “It will kill within half an hour. Hardly a _pleasant_ death, of course – where arsenic can be chronic, strychnine is demonstrably acute – but it comes with a measure of certainty that so often escapes the base elements.”

 

Vimes stared at the little innocent-looking seed.

 

When he spoke next, the Patrician's voice was almost a whisper. “I want you to administer it to me, your grace, if it appears that I will... say too much.”

 

“No,” said Vimes bluntly.

 

“I have kept it about my person, but my clothing, as you can see, is not surviving this experience with the integrity I would have hoped -”

 

“No.”

 

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Vetinari's mouth.

  
“No, your grace?”

 

Vimes snorted. “Oh, excuse me, I was mistaken. I meant _hell_ no. If I'm going to kill you, it's going to be on a gibbet at the end of a rope.”

 

The Patrician's expression was unreadable as he stared at Vimes for several seconds longer than was comfortable. Normally Vimes would have adjusted his gaze to a point above and slightly to the left of his ear, but this time he allowed himself to stare directly in to those startlingly blue eyes.

 

A cold fury rose within him. How many times had he wanted to kill Vetinari, or at least punch the man's infuriatingly omniscient face through the back of his infuriatingly omniscient head? And now Vetinari, the untouchable, unflappable, unemotional tyrant of Ankh-Morpork, had _asked_ for death. Not even hinted in one of his twisty orders-hidden-as-statements-hidden-as-questions, it had been a request as plain as the lump on Vimes' head. Vimes was disconcerted to learn that it hurt almost as much.

 

He aimed a kick at the closest thing that was not likely to break his foot.

 

Lord Vetinari closed his eyes patiently as the water firkin flew halfway across the room and rolled the other half on its side, a sad trail of liquid showing its trajectory.

 

“I really rather wish,” he said, with the calmness and resignation of a man confronting a problem of approximate size to a pet fouling a cheap carpet rather than a man seriously considering the looming threat of dehydration, “that you had done that _after_ I had finished drinking from it.”

 

The haze of rage receded slightly as Vimes' rationality caught up.

 

“Oh,” he mumbled as he stared at the firkin, which was now empty except for a tiny puddle of the dregs, “sorry.”

 

Vetinari waved his hands impatiently.

 

“I could ask for some more, I suppose?” muttered Vimes, feeling slightly guilty. “I guess everyone speaks a _bit_ of Morporkian...” he blinked, realising that they had been blissfully undisturbed for quite some while, particularly considering that their captors knew a man with nothing to hold him back but a lump on his head was able unsupervised to do whatever he wanted with a prisoner as valuable as Vetinari... He suddenly had horrible visions of rotting away into a skeletal, starving, bone-dry husk. “How often do they come in here, anyway?”

 

“This is the first time they have left me alone for any length of time. I expect they are hoping you will be horrified at what you have witnessed and convince me to divulge my knowledge to save me from further humiliation, or the like.”

 

Vimes stared. Vetinari chuckled weakly at him.

 

“They are _cunning_ , your grace, but naïve. On some points they are so very well informed, yet on others woefully misguided.”

 

“I see you have everything figured out and under control,” Vimes said coldly, kicking the empty firkin again.

 

“Gratifyingly more so than they,” answered Vetinari with words that did not fit his broken voice as he eased himself back into a sitting position and closed his eyes, as sure a sign as any that the conversation was over.

 

oOo

 

The room was crude but solid. Vimes had vented his anger on the little firkin, kicking it around the room until Vetinari had opened his eyes to affix him with a Look that stopped his foot mid-kick. Lacking anything meaningful to do, and with Vetinari now obstinately ignoring him3, Vimes had walked round and felt every inch of the wall, floor and door that he could reach. There were no convenient latches or spikes or shards of broken glass to cut ropes, nothing that would aid an escape, nothing even that could be used as a weapon. He'd even considered breaking the firkin into a rudimentary club, but the wood was good and strong and the hoops held firmly in place with thick rivets. All he'd got from trying was splintered fingers. As a last resort, Vimes supposed he could _throw_ the firkin, though it was quite light when not full of water and, while capable of delivering a nasty bruise, he did not like to think of what would happen if he made his captors _angry_. Vetinari aside, _he_ had been treated fairly well, considering, and it would be foolish to waste that because he decided to play hero with a water butt.

 

Even as boredom threatened to slice into him, there were footsteps outside and the door opened. Vimes had to turn his head away and shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of brightness which stole his night vision. Three shadows moved through the light; he could see them imprinted on the insides of his closed eyelids. From the sounds of movement, they were three men, one a lot heavier than the others. The last one in closed the door behind him, cutting off the painfully glaring light.

 

Able to open his eyes again, Vimes saw two robed and hooded Nanokatians standing over Vetinari. Both were quite thin and one was a considerable bit taller than the other. They were talking rapidly to each other in their own language. A surge of anger and hatred rose within him and he started towards them, fists clenching and unclenching, but, as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and a warning hand fell on his shoulder, he realised where the third man had gone.

 

The taller Nanokatian hissed something to the man nearest Vetinari, who nodded slowly. Vimes tensed as one of them bent down and took hold of the Patrician's bound wrists, but he became very, very still as the point of a thin-bladed knife drifted perilously close to his eyeball.

 

“Peace, Grace Vimes”, said a heavily-accented voice by his ear, the speaker somehow managing to give “Vimes” two syllables. “It is not for you. Works not, does it? The beating.”

 

“Probably not,” spat Vimes, moving his head slowly backwards. The blade moved with him, pointedly illustrating he was not free to move.

 

“Ah, but Grace. All men fear pain.”

 

Vimes stayed silent, staring almost unseeingly as the two robed figures forced Vetinari onto his back and secured his hands to the wooden post above his head. One of them through a pail of a liquid that smelled strongly of lamp oil over the supine figure. Only Vimes, accustomed as he was to the Patrician's mannerisms, noticed the hitch in his breath as the oil splashed onto his unprotected chest.

 

One of the men said something in Nanokatian to Vetinari, who answered in the same blank tone that he gave in meetings when someone said something he did not want to hear. The man knelt down next to Vetinari and touched the Patrician's skin just below his sternum.

 

Almost immediately, with a grunt of exertion, the torturer drove a three inch spike into Vetinari's body, sinking the piece of metal just over an inch into the exposed soft flesh beneath the bone. Lord Vetinari jolted involuntarily and shut his eyes at the point of impact, but otherwise made no sound. As the Nanokatian moved away, Vimes could see the end of the spike jutting upwards from where it was embedded in the Patrician's body. There was very little blood, and that which did seep out was quickly dispersed in the oil which still glistened on the pale skin.

 

The smaller of the two robed figures stepped forward and knelt next to Vetinari. He held in his hand something thin and white, which he started easing on to the protruding spike with deceptive care. Vimes watched Vetinari's expression, which had suddenly tightened and become stony and closed.

 

As the man shuffled away from Vetinari again, Vimes looked at the white shape which was now securely fastened to the spike, and which rose and fell with the Patrician's ever-so-slightly uneven breaths.

 

His mouth dropped open and a sick feeling rose in his throat as he realised that he was looking at a small candle.

 

“Wait -” he started, but one of the men had already struck a match. Vimes watched, speechless, as the wick caught and flickered, as the wax started to melt and slide downwards...

 

“Stop it,” he said again, turning his head slightly to the Nanokatian who was holding the knife by his face. The man merely flashed a gap-toothed grin.

 

The candle was not a long one. It was only a used stub, or possibly a cut-off end, and it would not burn for very long on its remaining wax. Luckily after the wax had melted away, there was a good supply of lamp oil waiting.

 

Vimes looked back at Vetinari, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the flickering flame. Aside from his breathing more deeply than normal, there was no obvious sign of his discomfort. As the tallow stub burned away, however, Vimes noticed the smallest of shivers taking hold of the gaunt frame. One of the robed figures bent close to Vetinari's face and said something in his native tongue. The Patrician remained silent.

 

He voiced his wordless contempt by tilting his chin to his chest and blowing the candle out.

 

With a deeply unamused look, the Nanokatian struck another match and relit the wick, aiming a kick at the side of Vetinari's head for his impudence. His heavy boot left a small gash on the Patrician's cheek just below his left eye. Vimes felt the smallest surge of patriotic pride. _Take that, you foreign shit-eating motherf-_

 

“Ah Grace Vimes, it is bad, the seeing,” said the voice by Vimes' ear. While still holding the knife uncomfortably close to Vimes' unshaven cheek, the owner moved around so he was standing in front of him. Against all common sense and rational possibility, Vimes found himself looking at a man who was almost as stocky as Detritus, if not quite as silicate. The sheer bulk blocked Vimes' view of Vetinari, which was, if he was honest with himself, no small comfort. Vimes was not the type to shy away from blood and was more than willing to inflict pain when he found it necessary, but he abhorred the idea of torture.

 

The human landmass in front of him successfully blocked his sight, but it was less apt at preventing his other senses from understanding what was happening. His ears most definitely heard the _fwmph_ of fuel suddenly igniting followed by the sharp gasp of a man's broken voice; his nose most definitely picked up on the strong smell of charred skin and burning flesh.

 

The living wall in front of him grinned again, and Vimes fought the urge to vomit in his face. From somewhere behind the man came the sound of someone speaking Nanokatian again, to be answered by a hoarse, strained voice. Vimes grit his teeth as he realised the second voice belonged to Vetinari, though, all things considered, he sounded remarkably calm for a man who was literally on fire. It would almost be better, Vimes thought, if the bastard would just scream.

 

And, as if on cue, there _was_ a scream. It was a scream of anger rather than of pain, and it came from the other side of the small but solid metal door. The same door slammed open barely a moment later and another robed and hooded figure rushed in, speaking fast in his native tongue.

 

There was a sudden flurry of activity. The man in front of Vimes, distracted by the intrusion, moved away. Vimes relaxed a little as the silver blade left the zone he had mentally labelled Far Too Close and lingered instead in the zone labelled Slightly Too Close.

 

As the man moved, Vimes caught a brief glimpse of Vetinari, whose body was bent in a tense concave arch as though he was trying to suck his chest away from the burning heat, before one of the Nanokatians swiftly threw a heavy cloak over him. There was a hissing noise, followed by a very muted sob.

 

The four men were almost shouting at each other now. The part of Vimes that was still inextricably connected to the streets started to size them up. One against four? Surely he had been in worse spots? He'd survived a pack of werewolves, after all, even if they _had_ been toying with him.

 

Before he could even think of picking a fight, however, all four men turned on their heels and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Their loud voices echoed up the corridor. Vimes couldn't understand the words, but the tone alone told him they were nothing he would repeat in front of Sybil.

 

He waited a moment until the footsteps had fully receded before returning his attention to the shape on the floor. The departing Nanokatians had taken the torch with them, but even without his eyes fully accustomed to the gloom Vimes could see that only Vetinari's bound wrists were uncovered. The rest of his body was covered by the heavy but ragged cloak.

 

“Commander...?” asked the cloak in a faint voice that was more like a sigh.

 

Gingerly, his fingers feeling as unwieldy and clumsy as bread loaves, Vimes lifted the cloak off the pitiful figure, doing his best not to snag it on the ugly, wax-covered metal which still stood stubbornly upright like a grim flagpole.

 

Vetinari's eyes were closed and his cheeks were paler than normal. Ragged breaths passed slowly between his dry, parted lips, but otherwise there was no physical sign of what had just happened.

 

Except the splash-shaped red area on his chest, which even now was starting to blister...

 

“I would appreciate,” said Vetinari, still with his eyes closed, “if you would help me up, Vimes.”

 

Wordlessly, squinting his way through the enveloping murk, Vimes knelt down and fumblingly undid the rope end which fastened Vetinari's wrists to the short wooden post. The knot was not as tight as it had been when he had first struggled with it, and he managed to release the other man with the callused skin on his fingers mercifully intact.

 

“And now,” said Vetinari, rising shakily into a sitting position, “we do not have much time.”

 

“What did they say?” asked Vimes, watching the Patrician drag himself to his feet. One of the thin hands lingered over the candle spike, the fingers gently brushing the metal. Vetinari's expression barely flickered as he moved his hand away.

 

“Oh, I hardly pretend to be an _expert_ -”

 

“Don't play silly buggers!” snapped Vimes, his helplessness-fuelled frustration rising again as Vetinari interrupted his own sentence with a low grunt that only someone who was listening for it would have heard. “I just listened to you _speak_ the damn language of the slanty-eyed shit-spewing bastards, and whatever the hell they were talking about just now was important enough for them to leave _you_ alone when they were having such _fun_!”

 

Vetinari looked Vimes in the eye. Vimes was both astonished at how tired the unflappable politician looked and annoyed at himself for being astonished over the bleeding obvious.

  
“Their leverage is gone.”

 

“Leverage? _What_ leverage?” _Why can you never give me a straight bloody answer?!_

 

Lord Vetinari's answer, if one was forthcoming, was interrupted by the door swinging open again. Three of the four Nanokatians entered, including the one who Vimes mentally described as being built like a brick shithouse. The larger of the three laid a heavy hand on Vimes' shoulder, both as a warning and a restraint. Vimes didn't have to see the knife to know it was there.

 

The other two, seeing Vetinari released from the post and standing on his own, started barking orders in rapid Nanokatian. Vimes noticed that one of them was carrying a sword. It was not the Ankh-Morpork double-bladed broadsword typical of those that hung as decorations in the houses of people like Lord Rust, nor was it the short sword worn by the Watch before Vimes had decided that arming his staff of borderline sociopaths with anything sharper than a cosh was a Very Bad Idea. It had a thin, slender blade with a slight curve and, for being single-bladed, had an unusually prominent fuller. Unlike the dress swords of the Morporkian duchy, which were all glamour and no gore, it looked like a sword designed for killing.

 

Whereas before they had moved with the leisurely pace of those who knew they had their prey within their power and enjoyed tormenting the helpless4, now they moved with the urgent purpose of men whose personal welfare was suddenly at stake.

 

One of the men grabbed the rope trailing forward from Vetinari's wrists and pulled as the second man jabbed his hands into the Patrician's scabbed back. The man holding the rope tugged sharply again, and Vetinari allowed his hands to be pulled forward. His head bowed in natural motion as the man behind him pushed him, trying to get him to his knees.

 

Vimes later had to replay what happened next several times in his mind's eye, and even then he couldn't quite get himself up to speed.

 

Vetinari's head snapped back like a cracking whip. As the top of his skull connected noisily with the Nanokatian's nose, the Patrician thrust his arms upwards and forwards, looping his bound hands over the head of the hooded figure in front of him. The knot by his wrists dug briefly into the struggling man's throat before Vetinari twisted his arms sharply and, with a sickening but somehow satisfying _crack_ , one Nanokatian was crumpling with a broken neck while the other was staggering, dazedly clutching his bloody nose with both hands.

 

“Vimes!” snapped the Patrician as he kicked the body away from him with his good leg and picked up the fallen sword. There was no way he could wield it properly even if he knew how, not with his hands bound as they were. However, the man with the broken nose posed little threat, and he sank to the floor with a half-sigh as Vetinari ran him through.

 

Vimes felt the Nanokatian holding him shift and knew his attention was distracted. Quickly, he drove backwards with his arms, grimly elated as both elbows sank into something soft and squishy. The hand fell away from his shoulder and there was a clatter as the knife hit the ground. Half turning, Vimes brought his knee up as the man bent forward over his elbowed stomach.

 

 _Crunch_. Knee and chin connected hard.

 

The man swayed but remained standing. Never one for honour when his life was on the line, Vimes opted for the Nobby approach and took the opportunity to kick him inna fork. He collapsed without any further resistance, frothing slightly at the mouth and clutching his voonerables.

 

“I suggest we leave,” said a voice by Vimes' ear, and he looked up to see Vetinari holding the stolen sword and the cloak which had been used to put out his fire. The Patrician was panting quite heavily.

 

Vimes could hear the Nanokatian behind him being noisily sick. “I agree,” he said, and poked his head out of the unlocked door.

 

To his surprise, they were not in a big building. In fact, it would have been more accurate to say they were in a cottage, though cottages, at least in Vimes' limited experience, did not normally have heavy doors of cast steel. He could see the building's entrance from the door to their prison. It looked as though there were only two other rooms, and through the open door, Vimes could see that one of those was the unoccupied privy. That meant the fourth man, and any others present, were in the last room. Perhaps, if they were quiet, they could sneak out without being heard...

 

Vimes paused at the door and turned back in time to see Vetinari wiping the sword on the vomiting man, who appeared to have stopped mid-spew and was instead lying suspiciously still.

 

“You _killed_ -” Vimes started as Vetinari walked towards him.

 

“Indeed?”

 

Vetinari brushed past Vimes. With a glance, his ice-blue eyes had taken in the two remaining doors, one open, one closed.

 

Quietly, the Patrician nudged the final door open with his shoulder. As Vimes had suspected, there was a single robed figure within the small room, who was bent over a table staring fretfully at what looked like a map of Ankh-Morpork and the Sto Plains. Before he could even raise his head, Vetinari slew him without a word.

 

Vimes followed the Patrician out of the hovel into the streaming sunlight. The first thing he noticed was that it felt good. Being in the dank room for however many hours or days had left him feeling so mouldy and infested with parasites that he wanted to scour his skin off with a grater, but the sun's rays helped to melt away the feeling of dirt.

 

The second thing that he noticed was that there was nothing to block the sun reaching him. No buildings, no smog, no miasma so thick you could bite into it, no looming citizens of indeterminate species... and that meant that, wherever they were, it was not Ankh-Morpork.

 

The _third_ thing he noticed was that Lord Vetinari had collapsed.

 

“Sir?” asked Vimes urgently, crouching next to the Patrician. Vetinari's frail body was racked with shivers, punctuated by his hoarse shallow breathing. By some miracle, he had avoided landing on the sword.

 

“I appear to be in shock,” murmured the Patrician, his eyes opening to focus blearily on Vimes' face. Vimes touched Vetinari's arm and almost pulled his hand away. The pale skin was burning cold. Vetinari was drenched with sweat.

 

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice flat. He didn't know _anything_ about medicine, and from what little he could remember of Igor talking about shock, it was _not_ a good thing to be in.

 

“My word,” said Vetinari faintly.

 

Vimes took the heavy cloak from Vetinari's weak grip. Carefully, he lifted the unresisting form into a sitting position and wrapped the cloak around the naked shoulders, gently covering the scarred back and burned chest. Some of the blisters were seeping. With as much care as he could manage, Vimes hoisted Vetinari's disconcertingly light frame over his shoulder.

 

Vetinari mumbled thickly, “just to the palace will do, Drumknott,” and fainted clean away.

 

Desperately, Vimes looked around at a landscape that was mostly grass and rolling hills. In the distance, he could see the rising peaks of the Ramtops and there, slightly widdershins, was the unmistakeable bulk of Copperhead.

 

Turning a little to his left, Vimes' heart rose as he saw the sun's reflection giving away the presence of water. Not quite running, but stumbling as fast as he dared with Vetinari's limp form across his back, he strove forwards across the plains.

 

oOo

 

The water turned out to be a small, fast-flowing river. If Vimes's hasty ill-informed geography was correct and they _were_ on the Pseudopolis side of the Sto Plains, then it was most likely a tributary to the Ankh. That meant that following it _should_ take them back to Ankh-Morpork, though the water would no longer be recognisable as such by that point.

 

The bank was very rocky. Vimes lay Vetinari on the grassiest bit he could see and selected a large, flat-looking stone, which he pushed under the dark head as a poor attempt at a pillow. Catching some water in his cupped hands, he held it over Vetinari's mouth.

 

Most of the ice-cold melt water, fresh from the Ramtops thaw, splashed over the Patrician's face, but by lucky chance some of it did enter his mouth. Vetinari swallowed some and coughed the rest.

 

At least he wasn't dead.

 

Moving the cloak aside a little, Vimes splashed some more water over the angry-looking burn. Large blisters had formed, and the surrounding skin was discoloured a bright angry red. Most of Vetinari's chest hair had been burned away. Trying his best to ignore the lingering smell of scorched flesh, Vimes continued pouring water on the wound. When Vetinari started shivering again, he wrapped the cloak back around him and finally allowed himself to have a drink.

 

Who knew water that would eventually be part of the Ankh could taste this fresh and _watery_?

 

Vimes splashed some on his face. It was cold, but it felt good.

 

His gaze was drawn back to the spike still sticking out of Vetinari's chest. It hadn't bled much, yet, but even without much medical knowledge, experience and common sense told Vimes that pulling it out would produce much the same effect as a fork being pulled out of one of Dibbler's sausages.

 

Still... maybe it was better to do it now, while the man was unconscious?

 

First, of course, he should probably untie the Patrician's hands. Knowing it was useless to waste the skin of his fingers again, Vimes picked up the sword that Vetinari had liberated. Carefully, using the blade only near the very tip to avoid cutting the other man accidentally, he sliced through the thick rope. It was a testament to the sword's sharpness that it severed the heavy bonds effortlessly.

 

Vetinari's hands, now free from each other, fell to his sides. The rope, however, remained firmly stuck to him, the oozing scabs on his wrists having formed over the weave. To pull the scraps of rope away now would tear away the healing tissue. On the one hand, it was probably wisest to do it now before the wounds healed further, and there _was_ fresh water nearby to clean open cuts... but on the other hand the Patrician's wrists had festered for some time and were probably already infected with _something_...

 

Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. What he wouldn't give for one of Pantweed's panatellas right now...

 

Pushing the wrist dilemma to the back of his mind, he turned his attention back to the more pressing issue of the chest injury. The Nanokatians had probably not been considerate enough to sterilise the spike before pushing it in, and the wound and surrounding skin needed to be cleaned. Vimes carefully gripped the metal between his thumb and forefinger. Some small globules of wax still clung to it, and they softened very slightly under the heat from his fingertips.

 

In a single smooth movement, Vimes jerked his hand upwards and the spike was released from Vetinari's body with a soft but unpleasantly wet noise. Vimes flicked the thing away and focussed his attention on the open puncture, which was now free to bleed happily and unencumbered.

 

Hesitating the slightest moment, Vimes ripped a strip from his undamaged shirt sleeve and dipped it in the river before pressing it as firmly as he dared onto the hole to stem the flow, somehow hoping that Vetinari didn't wake up.

 

Luckily, the bleeding had almost completely stopped within about five minutes. Perhaps Vetinari really didn't have that much blood in him. Vimes washed the scrap of material as best he could in the river and gently dabbed the skin around the fresh scab, hoping that it wouldn't open again if Vetinari moved. Vimes held a nagging concern that his laying Vetinari on his back had probably reopened some of the whip marks, but the scabs there had had slightly longer to close and were less pressing in his mind than the fresh burn and the gruesome spike.

 

The Patrician's breathing, at least, seemed to have returned to a rate that wasn't deeply unsettling, and his fever seemed to have gone down, though it may just have been overtaken by the cold sweats of shock. Vimes wondered if the man was still unconscious, or whether he had upgraded to merely sleeping. It struck him that, though he had seen Vetinari comatose several times, he still wasn't even sure that Ankh-Morpork's supreme ruler actually slept if he hadn't been assaulted in some way.

 

Satisfied with his effort to clean the deep chest injury, Vimes sat back on a rock that had fewer sharp edges than the others, his mouth wishing for a cigar, and wondered what to do next.

 

oOo

 

The sun was low in the sky when Vimes looked up and saw Vetinari watching him through one half-closed eye. His left eye was blackened and swollen shut. There was finally some colour in the pale cheeks.

 

“How are you feeling, sir?” asked Vimes with a cheerfulness he did not feel.

 

Vetinari tried to raise himself on his elbows, managing to get halfway before his protesting body caught up with his brain and he slowly sank back down onto his injured back with a wince.

 

“... Considering the circumstances, I imagine I could be a lot worse.”

 

“You _look_ bloody awful.”

 

A lopsided smile flashed across the thin mouth. “A perfect diplomat as always, your grace.”

 

Vimes watched Vetinari move his hands to wipe sweat from his forehead. Both hands rose together, as though still attached by invisible strings. Lengths of blood-swollen rope still trailed from the limbs. Vimes blinked.

  
“Do you reckon you're strong enough to walk?” he asked bluntly, aware that the obvious answer was No. “Only the sun's going to set soon and I don't fancy hanging around out of doors for much longer, because that means I'll have to _Guard_ , and I've decided I want a day off.”

 

A flicker of a smile passed over Vetinari's lips.

 

“I was not aware you knew what a day off was, Commander.” He sighed slowly. “I would appreciate your help standing.”

 

Wordlessly, Vimes gripped the Patrician under his arms and helped him into a shaky standing position. Even upright, Vetinari leaned heavily on the policeman. Far more heavily than Vimes would have believed for the Patrician, who always seemed so untouchable and in control. Vetinari's skin was still quite cold but was already damp again with sweat.

 

With Vetinari no longer lying on his back, Vimes could see the lattice of whip marks. He winced at how angry and dirty they seemed. Of course, lying on literal dirt hadn't helped matters.

 

“I should... clean your back, sir.”

 

“Hmm? Oh. Yes.”

 

Vetinari leaned against him like a tilted beanpole as Vimes tore another strip of his shirt, again thanking his luck that he had thrown on one of his old, cheap threadbare garments before leaving his house. Using one arm to keep the Patrician upright, he bent and quickly dipped the cloth in the river before wiping away as much of the superficial dirt as he could. Vetinari's breath hitched the barest amount when the icy cold damp first touched his torn skin, but he otherwise waited patiently, his head bowed slightly forward, as Vimes gently worked.

 

Dropping the cloth when he was done, Vimes stooped to pick up the heavy cloak, which he again draped over the Patrician.

 

“And what is the plan now, your grace?” asked Vetinari, holding the material at his shoulders to fend the evening chill away from his naked chest. His face was far paler than normal. Sweat beaded his brow, streaking grime across his forehead.

 

“I had a quick look round while you were, er, asleep. There's a land bridge not fifty metres downstream, and it looked pretty well-travelled. I saw a clacks too. I reckon we must be near one of the plains coach routes. We just need to get a coach back into the city.”

 

“Ah. A feat easily accomplished by a resourceful and expert Commander of the Watch.”

 

“I bloody hope so,” muttered Vimes under his breath.

 

oOo

 

Alacrity Ribbons was running late. He had hoped to pass the clacks tower before sunset and be in Ankh-Morpork in comfortable time to deliver his cabbages and venture on to one of the numerous taverns with his pockets full of cash. He had changed his oxen in Sto Lat and had been assured by the trader that this new pair were fresh and full of zest. Alacrity wasn't sure what zest was but he was fairly sure he was yet to see any, and, though the oxen were certainly fresh, it wasn't in the way he had paid for.

 

Now that the sun had set, Alacrity merely hoped to get into the city before the bar closed.

 

Something appeared on the road in front of his cart. The oxen slowed down and stopped quite quickly, because even the most stubborn ox will think twice about ploughing onwards when confronted with a wild-eyed man brandishing a sword in one hand and a semi-conscious person in the other.

 

Alacrity squinted at the newcomer as he walked round to the side of the cart. He moved strangely and quite slowly, listing to one side as though his internal steering was just a little off. Alacrity realised it was because he was half-supporting, half-carrying another man with his spare arm.

 

“Look, is this a robbery?” he asked. “'Only we're in Ankh-Morpork territory now and I'm all paid up.”

 

Vimes jerked the hand that held the sword.

 

“Evenin', trader,” he said pleasantly. “Where are you heading?”

 

“To the city. Got cabbages from Sto Lat and they gotta be there by midnight or else I don't get paid, so if you don't mind, mate, I'll be on-”

 

Vimes slammed the flat of the sword against the side of the cart. Cabbages rolled inside.

  
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

 

“Er-” Alacrity looked at the unshaven face, the torn and bloodied shirt, the dirty hands and, most importantly, the foreign-looking but most-definitely sharp sword. A nervous yet slightly mocking smile spread across his face. “No. Don't you?”

 

Vimes reached forward and grabbed the front of Alacrity's shirt, pulling him closer so their faces almost touched. Despite the sudden uncomfortable closeness of the stranger's mad eyes, Alacrity's attention was wholly focussed on the sword which quivered in front of his gaze as Vimes jerked his head towards the third man, who was leaning heavily on him and was watching with what appeared to Alacrity to be a rather amused expression despite the half-healed split lip and the impressively swollen black eye.

 

“ _Do you know who he is?_ ”

 

“No! Doesn't he?!”

 

Vimes seemed to consider this. “Right,” he said, “you can give us a lift into town.”

 

“You can't-”

 

Something about Vimes' sudden smile caused Alacrity to fall silent. Once again, he looked the man up and down, taking in the wild glint in those eyes, the bloodied clothes, the bruised knuckles, the way the sword hung loosely but in a manner that suggested the bearer knew how best to use it – and then there was the second man, barely upright but still looking as though he was witnessing a very interesting play, clutching a cloak to him with both hands even though the night was mild and pleasant, with shreds of rope dangling from wrists that were red and raw...

 

Alacrity swallowed.

 

“Y'can ride in the back with the cabbages under the tarp,” he mumbled, “but I aint waitin' so you'd better hurry up and get on, and tell y'mate not to bleed on the goods.”

 

“How kind,” said Vimes the Diplomat.

 

“Masterfully done, Commander,” said Vetinari, not quite under his breath.

 

When both Vimes and Vetinari were in the cart, Alacrity whipped up his oxen into a gentle sloping meander again. Vimes sat with his lower back leaning against the wooden slats of the rickety transport. It was an old thing, and its wheels were poor; the uneven surface of the road caused it to wobble and jolt, and more than once Vimes found himself covered in cabbage.

 

Vetinari had settled himself so he was lying on his side, and he calmly watched Vimes pick cabbage leaves off himself.

 

“Here,” Vimes passed Vetinari a snapped-off leaf of white cabbage which had been clinging to his arm. “It's clean enough. It'll be bitter but you should probably eat something.”

 

“Stealing, your grace?” asked Vetinari as he quietly accepted the leaf. It was bruised and slightly wilted, but still fresh enough to be called a vegetable.

 

“It's not stealing, no one'll buy the loose leaves. Anyway,” added Vimes a little guiltily, “I'll get Willikins to send him a dollar or two, that'll cover any costs.”

 

There was silence for a while as Vetinari delicately nibbled at the edge of the leaf.

 

“Utterly disgusting,” he said, swallowing. “Are you not having any yourself, Sir Samuel?”

 

“I'll pass,” muttered Vimes, the crease of his brow a telltale sign of his mind being elsewhere. “I've eaten more recently than you. All I want is a smoke.” Besides, Sybil's near-vegetarian variant on BLT sandwiches had long before put him off eating anything that didn't look like a heart attack on a plate.

 

He turned to look at Vetinari, frowning more deeply, speaking in a tone that was half-accusatory and promised at a slow but steadily building anger.

 

“You could have done that at any time.”

 

“Done what?”

 

“Done – _that_! Nutted the guy in the head and killed all of them. You were never really a prisoner, you could have walked out of that place whenever you bloody well wanted! Why did you wait? Why let them do all that... _that_ to you?”

 

“Ah.” Vetinari sighed softly. “You are quite wrong, of course, as you are so often. The simple answer is that, on my own, I was not certain that I would be able to succeed. As you saw, there were four people there at the minimum. I am fairly sure one or two others came and left during my stay, though I could not claim to be certain on that point. My hands were quite literally tied. I have no doubts as to what my fate would have been if I had tried and failed, and, at the risk of sounding undeservedly conceited, the ideal state of affairs in Ankh-Morpork at the present is one where I am still alive.”

 

Vimes snorted. “What about me, then? Why not break out when I was thrown in there? You must have known that you could with me there too, but you still let them do that crap with the candle.”

 

Vetinari's voice was so quiet it was barely audible. “Leverage, your grace.”

 

“ _What bloody_ _leverage_?”

 

The Patrician sighed again as though disappointed. “You are not a passive man, Sir Samuel. Our captors were not stupid; they doubtless had intelligence on your, ah, prowess at defending yourself. The fact that you were left with free limbs and relative freedom of movement suggests to me that our gracious hosts had, or believed they had, another means of controlling you. What could that possibly be, Sir Samuel, when you are known to the city as Vetinari's terrier and even _I_ have trouble controlling you?”

 

An icy cold suspicion washed over Vimes' mind, sinking his thoughts in a powerful, all-consuming dread as he realised was Vetinari was getitng at. He opened his mouth, but the Patrician spoke before he could answer.

 

“I assumed – quite rightly, I believe – that Lady Sybil and your son were in imminent peril. If I had acted rashly, without being assured of your cooperation, then not only did I run the same risk of failure but there was the potential of your being used as a weapon against me. I have no doubt that if the lives of your family were threatened, you would not hesitate to kill or harm me to save them.”

 

“No, I wouldn't,” said Vimes roughly.

 

“It was only when the one gentleman burst in shouting that I was free to act. I speak a little Nanokatian, or at least enough of it to understand that he was saying your wife and son were in the custody of Watchmen and their agents had no means of getting to them to cause them harm.”

 

Thank the gods for Carrot, thought Vimes, and Cheery and Angua... they must have realised that _something_ had happened to him, and it would have had to be something malicious if Angua's nose hadn't been able to track him down, and they had immediately secured his family...

 

Vimes had nothing to say to Vetinari after that revelation. Had Vetinari held back more because he was concerned for the well-being of Sybil and Young Sam, or more because he was concerned about what Vimes may be willing to do to _him_ to protect them?

 

Lord Vetinari did not seem to expect a response. His eyes closed and his expression managing something near to peace, if punctuated by the occasional wince every time the cart crossed a pothole, he lay easily on his side with a cabbage for a pillow.

 

Vimes watched Vetinari's thin face as the last light of twilight faded away. It looked as though he was asleep, but Vimes wasn't going to stake anything of worth on that assessment. Yet infection could knock out even the strongest and most stubborn, and enough crap and poison must still be festering in the open wounds. He'd been lying on a floor that had been almost furnished with rat droppings and other biological fluids while they burned him. The man was a bastard, but even _he_ hadn't deserved...

 

Vimes settled back and stifled a yawn, quite unable to keep his eyes open any longer. The sword rested within easy grabbing distance of his hand as his thoughts swirled around getting back to Ankh-Morpork and prodding some _serious_ buttock.

 

oOo

 

“ - dangerous criminal, I reckon. Prob'ly a murderer from Pseudopolis or summit. Threatened me with a funny foreigner sword and he's gone and kidnapped some poor bloke and beaten the shit out of him too -”

 

“Where is he now, did you say?”

 

“Still in my cart! _And_ he's nicked a load of cabbages, I took inventory and there's _def'nitely_ at least four missin'!”

 

Vimes awoke to voices. He moved his arm to scratch his unshaven chin and dislodged several cabbages which had rolled on top of him during the journey.

 

“- came straight to you lot and I'm late for delivery too! With eight cabbages short of the order! What are you goin' to bloody _do_ about it?”

 

“If you will show me where he is, Mr Ribbons, I will apprehend the miscreant and take him into custody.”

 

“And you'll slap a charge on him for aggy-rav-ated assault and a bill for twelve cabbages right? I was in fear of my life the whole time!”

 

“I'm sure your life is very terrifying, Mr Ribbons,” said the watchman solemnly. “He will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

 

“Bless y'stars, Captain, you're a card.”

 

“Actually, Mr Ribbons, I am a Watchman. Sergeant, will you go around and remove the cover from over there? Constable Visit, you take that corner. Be ready with your weapon just in case. I'll take this side. Excuse me, Mr Ribbons, if you wouldn't mind stepping back-”

 

Vimes blinked as the tarpaulin was pulled back. He stared up into the pre-dawn murk which shone tiredly through a familiar atmosphere of pollution, stared into a face that he could have honestly _kissed_ with joy.

 

“Mister _Vimes_?”

 

“Captain Carrot, would you mind sending that trader away for a moment?” hissed Vimes, jerking his head towards the unconscious Vetinari. It wouldn't do to have even a rumour of the Patrician's incapacitation escape into the city. “Pretend I'm... pretend I'm a violent criminal or something.”

 

Captain Carrot of the City Watch stared at Vimes. “According to Mr Ribbons, that's what you _are_ , Sir.”

 

“Then he should believe it, Captain. Oh, and get Igor.” His head twitched again to Vetinari. “He's not doing too good and I don't want to try and explain if he dies why a Vimes has been found near _another_ dead ruler.”

 

Vimes watched as Carrot's eyes drifted over Vetinari and he nodded slightly. He heard Fred Colon's voice gasp “ _bloody hell is that Ve-_ ” as Carrot clapped a hand on Alacrity Ribbons' shoulder and carefully steered him away from his cart, saying “all right, Mr Ribbons, I see what you mean. Why don't you go inside and Constable Fiddyment will fill out a receipt for you, re seizure from your cart of two stowaways (human) and,” Carrot glanced back briefly, “several crushed or partial cabbage leaves (Sto Lat white).”

 

“Don't you forget my twenty stolen cabbages!”

 

Vimes settled his aching head back with a sigh, ignoring Sergeant Colon's confused questions for now. He was quite sure he had _never_ been so happy to see Pseudopolis Yard in his life. He'd answer the questions when Carrot asked them, when Vetinari was being looked after by Igor, because then he wouldn't have to tell the story twice... and then he'd see his wife and Young Sam, and Sybil would scold him for not taking better care of himself but only to hide how worried she'd been...

 

And then he would finally be able to go _home_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Not literally.

2 It had to be a cursory attempt as only Vimes' weapons of office and outer armour had been removed. A _c_ _omprehensive_ attempt to disarm Sam Vimes would have left him without joints, or, indeed, bones.

3 Or asleep, but the former was far more likely.

4 And probably small animals too. These were the types of people who pulled the legs off spiders and the wings from flies before holding the magnifying glass over them on a sunny day.


	2. Domestic Liaisons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this because I wanted to write a V/V porn scene
> 
> I just wanted them to fuck ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Why this

Two weeks passed.

 

Vimes spent much of the first day in bed, at Sybil's request. He was thankful for the chance to rest. Once he had seen Vetinari safely in Igor's care he had finally allowed himself to acknowledge his own head injury and weakness brought by lack of food and sleep. Captain Carrot had, of course, come to take a report, but dear, doting Sybil had shooed him away and asked him to come back the next day.

 

On the second day, Vimes gave his report to Carrot, leaving out only the particulars of Vetinari's torture. A little later on the second day, and much to his wife's dismay, he went down to Pseudopolis Yard and busied himself in desk work, if only to feel as though he was doing something. Vimes was not the sort to stay recumbent for as long as his body wished he would.

 

On the third day, Vimes went on patrol.

 

By the end of the first week, the anxiety about his appointment with the Patrician was growing. Oh, he didn't yet _know_ he had an appointment, but that didn't mean one wasn't as inevitable as bouncing when one fell in the Ankh. Not rain nor snow nor glom of nit had ever stopped Lord Vetinari from arranging them at the least opportune times. Vimes would quite frequently go through periods where the Patrician summoned him daily, though obviously they both needed time to recover before that practice resumed.

 

By the end of the _second_ week, Vimes was more anxious about his _lack_ of appointment. There had been nothing for him from the Palace. No summons, no obnoxious palace guards to say “the Patrician will see you now”, not even a curt message on letterheaded paper stamped in black wax by a signet ring bearing an austere 'V'. More than once, Vimes found himself wondering if Vetinari had actually died, but knew that if he had there would at least be a flurry of activity in the Palace instead of this... nothing.

 

Vimes busied himself by spending even more time on patrol, but this didn't help. After the first few days of his prowling Ankh-Morpork's darker streets in a filthy mood, the criminal underworld seemed to have decided that, at least for now, it was safer to stay out of his way. Crime was down. Even the Thieves' Guild weren't carrying out as many burglaries as they were entitled to, just in case something went wrong and the Wrath of Vimes descended upon them.

 

Vimes wished that something would happen, if only so he could engage in a good old-fashioned chase and have an outlet for his frustration.

 

Sybil kept telling him that all he needed was some rest. That was probably true, but she didn't understand that, the more the days passed, the less Vimes found himself able to rest. Since Young Sam had grown out of waking them in the small hours, Sybil had fallen into the habit of sleeping quite heavily. Vimes did not begrudge her this, as it meant that she was not disturbed by his fitful tossing and turning.

 

Most nights, his dreams were interrupted by the sound of a soft cry and the smell of burning flesh... Each time, Vimes would wake up, disoriented and sweating, to a dark room, and with only the feeling of his wife lying next to him to prove that he wasn't back in that godsforsaken hovel... Damn. _Damn_. If only Vetinari wasn't so bloody _Vetinari_ about it! Somehow, Vimes felt, the quiet gasping noises that had escaped the Patrician were worse than screaming. Screams were concrete expressions of pain or fear or anger1. Vimes was used to hearing screams; he heard them every day, one way or another, and he caused a lot of them himself. Vimes was _comfortable_ with screams.

 

Vetinari's barely-there whimper of defeat when the fire had caught was something he had not encountered before and doubted he would ever fully forget. Just the memory turned Vimes' stomach.

 

By halfway through the third week, Vimes was in such a state of nervous tension that he was barely able to sit down without snapping at the nearest person, which was most frequently Sybil. The only time he really managed to hold it together for any length of time was, like clockwork, at six o'clock every evening, when Young Sam's tentative voice followed a jabbing index finger along the well-read lines of Where's My Cow?

 

It was the talk with Sergeant Littlebottom that sent Vimes over the edge.

 

He could see the corner of the Palace from the window of his office at Pseudopolis Yard. It dominated his peripheral vision as Cheery spoke in a mixture of biology and chemistry. He only really understood half of it, but what did register was unsettling and, quite frankly, enraging.

 

That night, after having Where's My Cow? read to him again by his son2, Vimes threw on his old boots and a travelling cloak to fend off the light rain and told Sybil that he was going on patrol.

 

oOo

 

Drumknott, the Patrician's chief clerk, looked up when he heard the heavy footsteps approaching. Very quickly, his field of vision was filled with Commander Vimes of the City Watch, who loomed uncomfortably close.

 

“I've got an audience with Lord Vetinari,” growled Vimes, stubbing his cigar out on the wall and shaking himself out of his travelling cloak. “Where the hell is he?”

 

Leaning his head away from the unpleasant smell of tobacco smoke and wet leather, Drumknott stared at the watchman's unshaven face. “He's not accepting guests at this moment, your grace. If you have business, I am sure I will be able to bring it to his attention. Otherwise, I would ask you to please leave.”

 

“I checked the Oblong Office and it's empty,” Vimes continued, ignoring the clerk. “Where is he? It's too wet for him to be outside and too early for him to be asleep. Is he in his chambers?”

 

“Your grace, I really must insist –“

 

“No need to show me the way. I remember it from the last time I saved his damn life.”

 

Vimes tore through the Palace corridors with purpose. Drumknott followed behind him, his protests falling on deaf ears.

 

oOo

 

Vimes slammed the door open without knocking. There was a crunch as the handle connected with the wall, tearing away some of the disgusting wallpaper and denting the plaster beneath. He could almost _hear_ Drumknott wincing behind him.

 

Lord Vetinari was sitting at a smart mahogany writing table, the surface of which was barely visible under the spread of paperwork. A clean quill and a capped ink bottle sat ready for use. The evening copy of The Times was open across the top of the papers, and the fresh crossword was currently occupying the Patrician's attention. At the top of the table lay the Nanokatian sword that had somehow survived their flight to freedom. Someone had cleaned the blood from it and the metal of the blade, though etched with use, had an almost beautiful sheen.

 

The Patrician himself, while not exactly _healthy_ looking, no longer had the wasted, deathly pallor of one deprived of food and movement for several days. He was dressed, as ever, in dusty black, but in the privacy of his chambers appeared to have forsaken the long heavy robe. It made sense, Vimes supposed, considering the extent of the damage to his upper body.

 

“Ah, Vimes,” he said, not looking up from his puzzle. “Do come in. I thought I heard your rather distinctive footsteps advancing towards my bedroom. Imagine my delight to know I was not mistaken. Thank you, Drumknott, you may go. Please pencil in for me to make an appointment with a mason at some point in the future.”

 

The presence of the Patrician, alive but somehow weary, deflated Vimes' puffed-up sense of purpose and he stumbled out of his confident flow and into the carefully wooden demeanour he usually had when dealing with Vetinari. Crap, what was it about the man that _always_ put him on the wrong foot?

 

Vimes stood to awkward attention, staring at the horrible green wallpaper as Drumknott bowed his exit and silently closed the door. The last time he had been in this room was... the incident with the arsenic, wasn't it? Ha, and it still had the same grim décor.

 

“Did you have something to report, Commander?”

 

“No sir,” said Vimes stonily. Finally, Vetinari looked up. Vimes could see the edges of white gauze poking out from beneath his black shirt cuffs, betraying the bandages wrapped around both wrists.

 

“Oh? Then this is a social visit? How rare. Do sit down, by the way, though I am afraid I have only the bed to offer. I am not in the habit of giving audiences in my bedchamber.”

 

The note of warning in his voice was recognised and duly ignored as Vimes remained standing.

 

“Actually, sir, I mostly wanted to check that you were still alive.”

 

After a brief pause, Vetinari pushed the papers away before steepling his fingers and gazing at Vimes over the top of them. Now that the Patrician's face was fully turned towards him, Vimes could see the marked change in his appearance since he had last seen the man. The swelling around his eye had completely receded and all that was left of the vivid bruise caused by a booted foot was a faint green-brown discolouration around the top of the high cheekbone. The remnants of a thin reddish scab showed beneath the left eye where the pale skin had been gashed.

 

“Indeed? And now that you have verified that rather obvious fact?”

 

“There are some questions I want to ask that you're going answer. Sir.”

 

Vetinari smiled faintly. “Ah. You want me to make a statement so that the processes of the law may run their course. But Sir Samuel, the culprits are dead – you might even say executed – and I have decided that of the numerous roles I find myself playing in my day-to-day life, that of the victim is quite possibly the least agreeable. I would rather not revisit it if not strictly necessary.”

 

“Can't be executed, sir, there was no trial. Without a trial, a killing is just a murder, sir. Even if it's fully deserved.”

 

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “You would not suggest that I acted in justifiable self defence?”

 

“Couldn't say without a trial, sir. It's against the law. And before you give me that bullshit that you keep tellin' Lipwig and Downey and those others about laws not applying to tyrants, it's the law that _you_ wrote so that we wouldn't have another bloody revolution. No offence, sir.3”

 

Vetinari rose to his feet and slowly walked to the window. It was not as large as that in the Oblong Office, but it offered an impressive view of the city nevertheless. The stars in the blackened sky were barely visible over the lights from the clacks towers, flashing endlessly into the night.

 

“There should have been a trial,” Vimes repeated, watching Vetinari's back closely, his mind filling in the pattern of lashes left by the whip which even now were hidden beneath the black shirt. “A fair trial, and then they would hang. If justice is done behind closed doors then who's to call it justice, and who's to know it's been done at all?”

 

Leaning on his stick, Vetinari tilted his head to regard Vimes' reflection thoughtfully. “I could ask you the same, Sir Samuel. If a crime is done behind closed doors, then who is there to determine it a crime, and who is there to know it has been committed?”

 

“Who's to – you were bloody tortured! I could have played hopscotch on your damn back! You almost _died_!”

 

“I am well aware of that fact, your grace. I distinctly remember being present at the time.”

 

“How can you say that's not a crime?!”

 

Vetinari closed his eyes. “Ah. To _you_ it was a crime and to _me_ it was a crime and, I dare say, a great personal inconvenience. However, to the city,” he gestured lazily towards the window, “it never happened. Ignorance, as I have been informed multiple times, is bliss. To the people of our great city, today has been very much like yesterday and, importantly, nothing of greatly unusual merit has occurred. If there was to be a public trial then certain... _truths_ would have had to be made known to those with the power to dispense justice when I cannot be seen to be impartial. I hope you understand me when I say that I am not especially excited by the prospect of my little misadventure becoming common knowledge to figures like Lord Rust, or our _dear_ Mr Slant. No, as it stands the only people aware of the truth, or at least a part of the truth, are you and I, your wonderfully misshapen surgeon, and some select members of our respective staffs, and I rather intend this state of affairs to remain.”

 

The image of Rust, with his old-fashioned money and his old-fashioned ideas, getting his hands on the knowledge of Vetinari's weakness was almost strong enough to make Vimes grimace, and he could only imagine the damage that Slant, legal encyclopaedia that he was, could do with material that could so easily be spun into legislation demanding that Vetinari take an 'extended holiday' for 'recuperative purposes'.

 

However, the stubborn copper's soul inside Vimes had sniffed out a crime and, loathe to let go, sank its teeth further in. “But you murdered –“

 

“Will you arrest me for it?” asked Vetinari, turning away from the window. “You have no case, I'm afraid. Firstly, the alleged crime was committed outside of Ankh-Morpork jurisdiction and secondly, even if that were not true, I doubt very much that you would find any evidence of any of these shadowy agents ever being present in the city. Your four victims do not exist, they have _never_ existed, and you may therefore consider the matter to be closed.”

 

“You can't just –“

 

“ _Closed_ , Vimes.”

 

Vimes bit his lip in frustration and shrugged, which was as much acknowledgement as Vetinari was going to get of his acquiescence. It was good to know that being beaten to shit and back hadn't stripped the man of his ability to be an utterly infuriating bastard.

 

And of course, the conversation with Cheery that had been the catalyst for his impulsive visit...

 

“I spoke with Sergeant Littlebottom earlier, sir,” he grated. Vetinari looked mildly disinterested at the change in subject as he bent over his desk.

 

“I am sure that was fascinating, your grace. It is good to know that you speak with your staff.”

 

“We had a talk about poisons. She was telling me about strychnine.”

 

Vetinari became very still, fixing Vimes with an intense gaze, his expression closed.

 

“She told me something very interesting,” Vimes continued. “Basically everything you told me about strychnine was true. It _is_ very potent and it _is_ a horrible death. All it takes is a single seed, if chewed up, and a person really can die within fifteen minutes in absolute gut-tearing _agony_. But you didn't tell me the whole truth. Did you know that strychnine has a half-life? I had to ask Littlebottom what she meant by 'half-life' and do you know what she told me?”

 

Vetinari said nothing.

 

“She told me that strychnine seeds are only poisonous to people for about twelve hours after they fall from the tree.” Vimes was almost shouting now. “Unless the poison is used or refined in that time, the seed itself loses potency and is just a seed. You told me you'd been in that room for a week. There was no way that seed would have done anything to you! You specialised in poisons at the Assassins' Guild, didn't you?! Yet you gave me a placebo and told me it would kill you, and that you wanted me to feed it to you! _Did you bloody know that seed was useless_?”

 

“Yes,” said Vetinari quietly, “I did.”

 

In a flurry of rage, Vimes seized the front of Vetinari's black robes with both hands, not quite slamming the Patrician backwards into the wall but pushing him with force born from his hatred at being manipulated like a puppet on a string. Vetinari's back bounced off the wall just as Vimes' fist slammed into the plaster next to his left ear.

 

There was a flash of frozen time as, with his hand buried in the new hole in the wall, Vimes wondered in a sort of paralysed half-terror, half-fury whether he was about to die. Vetinari's eyes had closed when his back hit the wall, and Vimes watched them open slowly. The penetrating blue transfixed him as he pulled his hand back, fragments of plaster and torn wallpaper dropping from his bruised knuckles.

 

Something hard was digging in to his hip. Vimes assumed it the Death's head handle of Vetinari's cane until he looked down.

 

He looked back up sharply.

 

Vetinari's face was as calm and impassive as a rock, which was fitting, because the man's dick was as hard as one.

 

“Are you-!” spluttered Vimes, his anger derailed by this development and unsure what to fixate on. “Did you-! Are you getting off on-! _Does it bloody do it for you, using me like a godsdamn-!_ ”

 

Vimes' anger forced him closer to Vetinari. Though Vimes was the shorter man, his fists clenched the lapels of Vetinari's robes and the Patrician almost had to stand on tiptoe. It had been said once that Vimes' rage had lifted an orang-utan clear from the ground.

 

Vimes struck the wall again, in the same area next to the Patrician's head. Vetinari did not flinch, his eyes remaining open. Now speechless with rage, Vimes moved his leg to square up, his right hand drawing back again to punch the thin face.

 

The tiniest not-quite-suppressed cough escaped Vetinari, who otherwise seemed to have ceased breathing entirely. A flush of the palest pink was visible on the otherwise bloodless cheeks; Vimes would never have noticed it if he hadn't known what to look for considering the Patrician's current physical state.

 

Glancing down, Vimes realised that his moving his leg for optimum punching had caused it to press against Vetinari's erection. He sprang away from the Patrician as though burned.

 

Vetinari sank deliberately away from the wall. After taking a fleeting moment to compose himself, he limped calmly back to his desk and took his seat, his attention firmly fixed on the pile of paperwork. As Lord Vetinari moved, Vimes failed to notice the small smear of blood left on the horrible green wallpaper where the Patrician's back had been.

 

“Thank you, Vimes,” said Vetinari, and there was not a note out of place in his voice. “Don't let me detain you.”

 

Vimes didn't move.

 

After a tense half minute, Vetinari looked up at him.

 

“You appear to still be here, Vimes.”

 

“Sir.”

 

“I remember telling you that you may leave.”

 

“Sir.” Vimes' fists clenched and unclenched. His jaw barely worked and he ground out the word through grit teeth.

 

“That means I want you to _sod off_.”

 

There was a moment's calm before the storm hit.

 

“You manipulated me! Again! Why, so you could get your _jollies_?!” One fist slammed down onto the desk, upsetting papers and knocking the ink bottle over. If it hadn't been capped, a large amount of the paperwork would have been ruined. Vetinari regarded Vimes' hand coolly.

 

“I manipulate _everybody_ at some point or another, Vimes; it is one of the requirements of successful rule. Some realise, most do not. You are the only one who both realises _and_ resists, and I must admit that, against my better judgement, I find that somewhat endearing.”

 

“But you were half-dead! You asked me to kill you!”

 

The Patrician sighed and looked up at the ceiling as though for patience. “Quite simply, Commander, I needed you angry.” He raised a thin hand when Vimes opened his mouth to start shouting again. “I needed you _angry_ because when you are in a state of emotional distress you tend to a higher physical prowess than when you are allowed to think rationally, and I was relying on your ability to win a brawl as very little else would have allowed either of us to get out of our predicament with our lives.”

 

Vimes said nothing. It made sense, cried the rational part of his mind, but that didn't mean he had to _enjoy_ having his strings pulled like a predictable, malleable doll, and the fact that Vetinari could so accurately foresee his reactions and the affect they would have on his decisions was _deeply_ unsettling.

 

“Unfortunately, you seem to have landed me in a bit of a new predicament, though I do trust that you will mention it to no one. After all, though the rumour would certainly be juicy gossip for our young but enthusiastic tabloid press, I doubt very much that anyone would truly _believe_ you. If you were anyone else, Vimes, I assure you that you would not be walking free from my room after your _impoliteness_ tonight. However, you did save my life and I am minded to be lenient. And now, Commander, I would appreciate it very much if you would _leave_. Unless, of course, you wish to lend your efforts to rectifying this problem that you seem to have caused me.”

 

As the rage boiled itself out into the normal dull irritation that rose at the very sight of Vetinari, Vimes replayed the last sentence in his head several times. That was _definitely_ a veiled proposition, no matter how many times he rephrased it. There was no possible way Vetinari thought he would accept! Was there?

 

Vimes was half-taken with the fancy of grabbing the Patrician and fucking his overactive brain out, just to teach him a damn lesson about humanity and revenge. The thought was almost enticing, until his brain grabbed hold of his screeching libido, shook it by the shoulders and screamed _that's bloody Vetinari the bloody Assassin, do you really think he'd let you do that?_

 

And what about Sybil? Faithful, dependable Sybil waiting for him at home with their son, reliable Sybil who had supported him through the last two weeks and all the times before...

 

Vimes knew he couldn't go home to her, not in this state, not with the way everything had escalated since his return from the Plains. He'd never hit his wife and he never wanted to, but Vimes had felt his temper bubbling over at the smallest things... Maybe a release of tension was what he needed? Vetinari was the only other living being who had shared that experience in the little cottage with him. Maybe Vetinari needed a release of tension too...

 

“Fine,” he mumbled, not quite under his breath. Vetinari looked up sharply and blinked, astonished.

 

“Forgive me, Commander, I fear I may have misheard you.”

 

“I said it's fine,” growled Vimes again, not meeting Vetinari's gaze, “but I don't want your hands free.”

 

Vetinari looked uncharacteristically taken aback. “Pardon me?”

 

Ordinarily, Vimes would have wished he could frame a picture of the Patrician's face; it was so rare that Vetinari looked anywhere near any emotion that could be called 'surprise'. As it was, however, he was distracted, fixated on the thought _oh gods what are you doing you just offered to have sex with –_

 

“I don't want you having your hands free, sir. I don't trust you.”

 

“I hadn't taken you for a sexual deviant, Sir Samuel.”

 

Vimes glared angrily at a point on the wall above Vetinari's left ear. “I'm not, and you bloody know it, don't you?” You probably have people watching me while I'm with my wife and reporting all the lurid details back, was what he didn't add. “I don't trust you when I can't see your hands. I don't trust you when I _can_ see your hands, for that matter. If I'm going to do... _you_ , then you'll let me tie your hands to something, or I'm going home right now and sending a pigeon to The Times.”

 

Vetinari looked delighted. “Blackmail _and_ physical restraint! Good grief, have you been practising politics?” He pressed his fingers together loosely and looked at them thoughtfully, his voice now reduced to little above a serious whisper. “It won't make a difference, you know.”

 

“I know. I don't care. Those are my terms, sir. And no cuffs either. I haven't forgotten what you told me about slipping out of cuffs.”

 

“Very well. In exchange, my condition is that my hands are tied separately, not together. Agreed?” When Vimes nodded wordlessly, Vetinari rose to his feet and pulled, from a drawer in his desk, two plain silken handkerchiefs of faded black. “I expect these will suffice. You are confident in your knot work, I assume?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Oh really, Vimes. Considering the circumstances, I don't think there is much need to keep calling me _sir_.”

 

“Sir.”

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow as he handed the kerchiefs to Vimes, wisely refraining from commenting further. Vimes accepted them silently, his hands miraculously not shaking at all.

 

Tugging the material to test its resilience and satisfied when it failed to tear, Vimes nodded thickly towards the bed. He felt as though his thoughts were trickling through a forest of cotton wool and had to keep reminding himself that _yes_ , he was awake and _yes_ , this was real. Hadn't they been talking about poisons just ten minutes ago, and now he'd – oh gods, he'd propositioned Vetinari, hadn't he, and Vetinari _wasn't refusing_...

 

After adjusting the two thin pillows on the narrow single bed so that they would support his back against the headboard, Vetinari eased himself on top of the plain covers and took off his boots with a deliberate slowness. When he lay back, his upper back and shoulders propped up by the pillows, Vetinari fixed Vimes with a gaze that was both intense and questioning and held each arm up so that his wrists were aligned with the bedposts, ready to be bound.

 

Shit, when Vetinari was lying in that position, Vimes couldn't help his attention being drawn to the bulge in his trousers.

 

Even when harder than Dwarf battle bread, Vetinari was still so calm, so bloody _clinical_... Vimes wondered if _anything_ would make the Patrician lose control, and then, without his permission, his traitorous mind started filling in the blanks of what it would look like when he _did_ lose control and oh _gods_ it was erotic in ways that Vimes never wanted to admit he could possibly be comfortable with.

 

Licking his dry tongue across his even dryer lips, Vimes stiffly bent to tie Vetinari's left wrist, folding the handkerchief twice and securing Vetinari's arm to the bedpost with a knot behind that was well out of the tyrant's reach.

 

He paused. The clean white gauze of the wound dressing poked out from beneath the black material of shirt cuff and bond.

 

“Um. Doesn't that hurt?”

 

Vetinari arched an eyebrow and glanced at his bandaged wrist. “It feels merely like a tighter bandage, your grace.”

 

“Pull on it,” said Vimes shortly. “I want to make sure it's not going to slip.”

 

Giving Vimes a sardonic glance, Vetinari tensed his arm and pulled against the black material, which remained securely fastened. “Satisfied?”

 

“Stronger.” When Vetinari complied, the result was much the same. Vimes stared at the soft material with narrowed eyes until, eventually, he nodded to himself and reached over Vetinari to tie his other wrist in the same manner, standing back to admire his handiwork when he was done.

 

The Patrician regarded Vimes with an expression that, though near inscrutable, was almost as serious as Vimes had ever seen him. “And are you, your grace, agreeing to this because it is what you want?”

 

“Why wouldn't I be?”

 

“You may feel obliged to debase yourself to me as a means of penance. After all, you remained healthy while I was ill, and you remained free while I was imprisoned.”

 

“I'll bloody imprison you again if you don't shut up,” growled Vimes threateningly. “Don't put words in my mouth. I'll do it because I want to, otherwise I'd leave.”

 

“Capital!” Vetinari smiled, shifted slightly against the pillows and lay at ease. The thin shirt betrayed a definition to his body that was not normally visible under his longer, thicker robes of office. Vimes' gaze traced the contours of the muscles hungrily. Vetinari was not as stockily built as he and probably, in a match of pure strength, would lose. However, there was a poised agility disguised in the thin frame, and it put Vimes in mind of a coiled spring or a tense snake, ready to strike at the barest moment despite the illusion of relaxation.

 

Blinking several times, Vimes hesitated. He had reached what in his mind was a point of no return, a metaphorical Trousers of Time moment. The choice loomed in front of him – untie Vetinari, say the whole thing had been a joke and go home to his loving wife and his young son and his attentive servants, or initiate intimate physical contact with the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, who had been curator of Vimes' own personal hell for so long...

 

Vimes metaphorically grabbed the Trousers of Time and gave them a hefty kick in the crotch as he threw all reason out of the window and climbed onto the bed, swinging one leg over Vetinari to straddle the other man's waist. Vetinari quirked both eyebrows and stared at his boots, which Vimes had purposefully neglected to take off. Vimes ignored the unspoken demand; if it bloody well bothered him that much, then he could bloody well say so, otherwise the boots were staying on.

 

With hands that remained miraculously steady, Vimes undid the buttons of Vetinari's black shirt, exposing the narrow chest. The skin there was delicately pale, but for the splash-shaped red mark which remained of the burn and the small, circular scab where the candle spike had been thrust into the exposed flesh.

 

Hesitating just a moment, Vimes pressed his rough fingers to the scar. A thrill rushed through him when the Patrician's thin frame quivered ever-so-slightly under the touch.

 

“I thought it would be worse,” he said, his voice gruff but soft. “It's only been two weeks.”

 

Another brief shudder passed through Vetinari's body as Vimes' fingertips brushed the area where scar met nipple.

“The intention was to cause pain, not to risk my death,” the Patrician's eyes were closed almost all the way. Vimes would have been impressed with his ability to carry on an unrelated conversation, if he hadn't been thoroughly distracted by the way the lithe body _arched_ almost invisibly towards his touch. “Oil itself does not burn; only the fumes ignite. I escaped more traumatic injuries because the fire never directly touched my skin.”

 

“But it hurt, though.”

 

“Yes,” Vetinari paused. “It hurt. It was _designed_ to.”

 

Vimes sat back, his hands drifting along Vetinari's ribs, down his sides, to weave idle fingers through the dark material of the open shirt. He could feel Vetinari's hips tense and relax beneath him and knew the other man was trying not to buck. “I think I understand why I can do this. With you, I mean.”

 

One of the sculpted black eyebrows raised in a practised look that would probably have been more effective without the lingering pink tinge on Vetinari's cheeks. “I assume because you are a red-blooded man, Commander.”

 

“I thought I dreamed it,” said Vimes, ignoring the jibe, still calm. Was Vetinari becoming frustrated? The tone was so _normal_ it was hard to tell. “I thought I couldn't have seen it, but I _did_. Just before that brute moved in front of me, after they relit the damn candle. You...”

 

He'd seen the fear on Vetinari's face. It had only been the briefest flash, enough to leave him questioning his eyes, but talking about the burn convinced Vimes that he had seen it. Vetinari had been _afraid_...

  
“I don't deny it,” said Vetinari quietly, his head tilting back and his eyes closing completely. One of Vimes' fingers traced gently down the proffered skin, following the line of Vetinari's throat and down one side of the angular collarbone.

 

“Up until now, I've never had any proof that you're not a twisted unfeeling git who exists on a completely different plane to the rest of us. Up until now, I didn't see you as a person, just as an irritating pillock whose head is on every coin of my wages.”

 

“Your concept of pillow talk is second to none, Commander.”

 

Vimes growled, “I don't usually take to bedding insufferable bastards.”

 

“How fortunate I am that you have made an exception.”

 

Biting down yet another retort, Vimes dragged his attention away from Vetinari's quick wit and infuriating tongue and turned it back to his exposed body.

 

Vetinari exhaled slowly as Vimes' fingers traced his sternum, again following the line of his lower ribcage around his sides. Slowly, deliberately, Vimes slid his hands between Vetinari's body and shirt, reaching around to the Patrician's back.

 

As he reached around, Vetinari twitched, his arms straining briefly against the silken handkerchiefs restraining them. The movement caused another stirring of _something_ in the pit of Vimes' stomach. He hadn't realised Vetinari could react so strongly to something so innocuous.

 

“Vimes, wait –“ he hissed, eyes snapping open. “Don't –“

 

But Vimes had already slid his rough hands, callused from endless rooftop chases, behind the Patrician, grazing the skin at the back of his hips, moving up slowly along the spine...

 

Vimes stopped suddenly. Vetinari's back had more ridges in it than a freshly-ploughed field. Tracing one in horrified fascination, following the line of thin, neat stitches and feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch, Vimes paused only when he felt a sticky warmth spread on his fingertips. Vetinari's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as Vimes withdrew his hand and looked at the fresh blood there.

 

“I opened them, didn't I?” he mumbled guiltily. “Oh gods, when I hit you against the wall, I must've –”

 

“There is no use mourning spilt blood, Commander,” said Vetinari sharply, though there was a lingering breathlessness to his otherwise curt tone. “Wounds bleed. It is in their nature.”

 

“Yes, but –“

 

“If you are going to continue to look at me with pity in your eyes, Vimes, then I will have you hanged.”

 

Vetinari sounded deadly serious as Vimes slid away from straddling him. Before the rising fury engulfed him, Vimes had the fleeting thought that, with both hands tied to the bed, Vetinari was in no position to have _anyone_ hanged, but he had no chance to voice this before the tide of rage swept him away.

 

“I don't _pity_ you!” he snarled, leaning back away from the Patrician and wiping the blood on his trousers. “You damn unfeeling _bastard_! Do you have any idea what the hell this has done to me? For the last two sodding weeks – _two weeks –_ I've been worried half sick about you bloody well _dying_ because of me! Because of _me_! And I'm bloody well _sorry_ , because I was there and I watched you flayed and impaled and damn near _incinerated_ while I was bloody standing there with two working arms and two godsdamn working legs and I did _nothing_. Do you have any idea how much that kills me?!”

 

“I fear I might,” said Vetinari quietly.

 

“ _NO, YOU DAMN WELL DON'T!_ I did nothing just because some sodding joker poked a knife in my eye, so instead I _watched_ , and I watched and listened and heard every single bloody thing and _then_ I find out that the only thing you asked me sincerely in there – the only bloody thing you've _ever_ asked me sincerely! - was to feed you poison, and I refused because of some misplaced bloody loyalty, only for the damn thing to be a fake anyway! But I still damn well wake up in a sweat every godsdamn night because _I'm right back there,_ with you asking me to kill you and me not doing a _bloody thing to stop it_! Two weeks of this and the only _sodding_ injury I had was a knock to the head! But you, you take this shit that would have any lesser being begging to die, and you had five days of it – or seven days, or whatever – you even used your damn body as a shield for _my_ wife and _my_ child while _I_ stood there like a bloody gormless fool! And then you brush it all off like it's just another mundane day in the life of Lord _Bloody Bastard_ Vetinari, and you _dare_ tell me that I'm _pitying_ you!?”

 

The Patrician's expression was closed and utterly unreadable. Vimes stared for a moment as the anger simmered, but as the silence dragged he found himself unable to hold his tongue.

  
“And half of me wants to turn in my badge because what decent copper would stand there and watch a man set on fire if it was in his power to stop it? But I'm not going to because it's _my_ bloody badge, and _now_ I find out that I bloody turn you on because you're some sort of twisted pervert but gods _damn_ so must I be because here I am, with you half sodding naked, and I'm bloody touching you _and I don't bloody want to be_!”

 

“Then you may go, Commander,” said Lord Vetinari coldly.

 

“What?” snapped Vimes, derailed.

 

“You may go. It appears I was wrong to have put my trust in you. I shall add it to my small but significant list of mistakes. Release my wrists and I will talk no more about the matter, and nor will you.”

 

There was the slightest deadened tinge in the Patrician's voice; the barest note of defeat which reminded him all too vividly...

 

Vimes sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands. Vetinari was right, he _should_ go, if only because this entire premise was so bloody ridiculous – he was a married man about to engage in lewd and indecent acts with the city tyrant, for gods' sake! The most powerful man on the Disc! - but, truthfully, he knew he couldn't. Damn Vetinari.

 

He wanted to speak, to open his mouth and say something so he wouldn't look like such a bloody fool, but every word turned to ash on his tongue. He was still angry, but, increasingly, Vimes realised that much of that anger was not directed at Vetinari rather than at his own incompetence. Incompetence currently reflected in every fading scar and every healing wound on the Patrician's svelte body.

 

There was the sound of a sigh from the bed.

 

“... I had not considered that my condition would affect you so strongly. Perhaps I would have been wiser to order you to look away.”

 

Vimes' head snapped up and he stared at Vetinari, the softly-spoken words resting like clear bell chimes in the clouded haze of his mind. That was the nearest he had ever heard Vetinari get to a sincere apology.

 

“I've wanted to hit you plenty of times,” he choked, his voice a strangled mess of emotions. “I've wanted to kill you and I've wanted to hurt you... but I never wanted to torture you, nor see you humiliated... You're a bastard, but you didn't deserve – you don't bloody deserve –“

 

Suddenly, Vimes cut off his own sentence and rose, pacing around the room. He was aware of Vetinari watching him impassively from the bed, still half-undressed and tied with his arms spread. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a raunchy picture book of the sort Nobby would have, but for the specks of blood on the sheets and the white material poking out from beneath the black ties on both wrists...

 

His wrists!

 

Terrible realisation slowly dawning, Vimes looked back to the Patrician's desk. There was the pile of paperwork there, which was not in itself unusual, but the unused quill and the capped bottle of ink... Even if Vetinari _had_ sat there all day reading, surely he would have had to sign _something_?

 

Throat suddenly dry, Vimes reached to the black handkerchief around Vetinari's left wrist and undid it with shaking hands. He barely trusted his voice as the restraint fell away and the Patrician's hand was released from the bedpost. Instead, Vimes pulled his notebook from his pocket, where he always kept it just in case, and pulled the small pencil from the binding.

 

He dropped the pencil on Vetinari's abdomen. Vetinari glanced down at it.

 

“Pick it up,” said Vimes, somehow managing to keep his voice level.

 

Vetinari looked at him.

 

“Pick it up.”

 

“You have surmised correctly, your grace –“

 

“Pick it up!” Vimes could barely keep the waver away from his curt demand now. Vetinari sighed and closed his eyes.

 

“... I cannot.”

 

Vimes seized the Patrician's free hand again, tugging clumsily at the bandage. Vetinari's polite protest of “I'd really rather you didn't,” was ignored. Vetinari had one hand free from restraint; if the Patrician _really_ didn't want him to, Vimes would be stopped. There was not even a token resistance as he unwound the white gauze, suddenly dreading what he would see but needing to know.

 

The smell – no, the _stench_ of infection hit his nostrils the moment the bandage fell away, but that wasn't the worst of it.

 

Open sores wrapped themselves the full circumference of Vetinari's wrist, leaking pus and plasma. Vimes was momentarily confused by the wounds on the insides of the thin wrists, until he remembered that there had been rope between the Patrician's hands as well as around them. Almost all of the skin that had been covered by the gauze dressing was red and slightly swollen, though areas where the cuts had been deepest were mottled yellow-green, and some of the skin at the edges of each horizontal slice was discoloured almost black.

 

Vimes dropped Vetinari's wrist and recoiled.

 

“The other hand is much the same,” said the Patrician, still frustratingly composed as he pulled his arm back. “I have, thankfully, retained some limited use of my fingers, though unfortunately that does not currently extend to lifting anything larger than a piece of paper but smaller than a tea mug. Your charming Igor offered me new hands but I must admit I have become somewhat attached to the ones I currently own and I opted to let them heal naturally. Flexing or stretching is quite beyond me, I am afraid.”

 

“But your back was _worse_!”

 

“Was it? I have not seen it to say.”

 

“ _I could see the bone_!”

 

“I hardly profess to be an expert, but I am told the cuts were quite clean, and had been washed as well as could be before I was passed into the care of the surgeon.”

 

Vimes gripped his forehead in one hand and groaned. Hadn't he cleaned the injuries after cutting the rope? He couldn't remember. _Gods_ , wouldn't he just kill for a bottle of Bearhugger's so he could focus on the burning in his digestive system instead of the burning in his pride. Cigars could not compare to blind drunkenness when it came to forgetting the unforgettable.

 

And when he had tied Vetinari to the bed, hadn't Vetinari said it wouldn't make a difference? At the time, Vimes had assumed that Vetinari was being a bastard and insinuating that being tied down wouldn't hold him back, but now he realised that the Patrician had _actually_ been saying he was just as handicapped either way...

 

“Your grace?”

 

“I can't bloody look at you! Every single scar you have is a reminder of a time I've _failed_ as a copper!”

 

Vetinari raised both eyebrows. “I must insist that you not take all of the responsibility from me, Commander. After all, I imagine I could translate most of the scars on _your_ body into times that you have saved my life or been placed in peril at my direct command _._ In fact, I dare say I have come to rely on you far more than I ought, considering your volatility.”

 

Vimes said nothing.

 

Taking advantage of the silence, Lord Vetinari reached over and untied his other hand. The positioning made it awkward and he fumbled with the knot, but somehow, Vimes noted, even while uncharacteristically clumsy the Patrician had a gracefulness that was simply unobtainable by common folk. Whether it was to do with his heritage, or his education, or his constant political restraint, or some mix of all three, Vimes found himself staring at the movement of the tensed abdominal muscles and the way the open shirt moved against naked skin.

 

Damn. _Damn_.

 

Both hands now free, Vetinari reached across to the small bedside table, where there were a number of pre-cut pieces of gauze. Calmly, occasionally holding the clean dressing between his teeth when his hand did not suffice, he re-bandaged his injured wrist with some difficulty.

 

“Do you want me to...?” Vimes gestured hopelessly.

 

“That depends. Do you want to help out of a desire to assuage your crippling self-pity brought on by your belief that it was your fault I have ended up in this position, which you feel reflects poorly on your capabilities as a policeman, in the hope that aiding my recovery will make you feel better about your own worth?”

 

“Wh –“

 

“Then no.” Vetinari glanced up. “Don't look at me like that, Vimes. You know very well my opinion of your capabilities as an officer, and I have told you that I have come to rely on you as both a diplomat and a pillar of the city. Your presence in that cell had no bearing on what was done to me; I can, in fact, assure you that far more was done to me without your knowledge before you were brought in. If you must lay a blame, then consider that our cunning captors would not have _bothered_ to go to the effort and not inconsiderable risk of kidnapping you had they not acknowledged your skill as an investigator and the high chance of your success in recovering me.”

 

Vimes frowned and looked back at his knees. “But I didn't stop –“

 

“No, you didn't. I would have thought you a fool if you did.” Vetinari absently massaged his left wrist over the clumsily-applied bandage and looked back at Vimes, who found it hard to meet the gaze that always seemed as though it could see right through him. “Or, I should say, I would _briefly_ have thought you a fool before our inevitable deaths, as I doubt very much you could have taken on three or four considerably strong, considerably _armed_ men, and I really was in no position to help you.”

 

With a movement from the elbow, Vetinari tossed the two handkerchiefs back to Vimes. They fluttered down onto his lap softly and he stared at them as though trying to work out what they were.

 

“The pragmatist in you knows that drowning in guilt cannot change the fact that I was tortured; the cynic in you knows that it was an inevitable move in the endless game of international politics; and the loyalist in you knows that I am _very good_ at that game, and currently it is my move. Now, your grace, either tie me back to the bed and resume, or go home and get some sleep.”

 

Grasping the black material almost unfeelingly in one fist, Vimes looked up at Vetinari as though seeing him for the first time.

 

“How can you be so damn selfless yet so bloody selfish at the same time?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “From the trickiest arsehole on the damn Disc to a bloody pep talk that not even my wife could manage in the same sodding breath... I don't know whether I should kill you or kiss you.”

 

“I do hope you decide soon,” said Vetinari softly. “I think I would far prefer one to the other, of course, but I won't press your decision.”

 

“Makes a bloody change,” grumbled Vimes, much to Vetinari's amusement.

 

Still, he thought as he retied Vetinari to the bed, the man was right, and for once he wasn't being intolerable about it. If only the sight of infection-rotted flesh and the smell of near-necrotising tissue was as easily put out of mind as it was hidden behind a bandage! Vimes knew that Vetinari had a high pain tolerance, but even he must be feeling it if it was restricting his movement. It hardly seemed – what was the word, fair? Just? Right? All of them sounded somehow insufficient and empty – for Vetinari to have suffered so much physical hurt and Vimes so little. The lump on his head was almost fully gone now, and there was only the slightest area of tenderness to show where it had been, but...

 

“Your friend with the knife was wrong,” Vetinari regarded Vimes calmly as he checked the knots.

 

“Friend with the knife? What friend with the knife?”

  
“In my brief employment as an oversized and not very efficient candle. I believe the man who picked you as a conversation partner told you that all men fear pain.” Vetinari sighed to himself and Vimes found himself impressed at both the man's memory and his attention to small details while being used as a human barbecue. “This is not true. Not all men – not all _people_ fear pain. Our friend Mr Slant is proof enough of that, as is your ever-enthusiastic Constable Shoe and, I believe, there are some monks on the distant crags of BhangBhangduc who meditate daily in ridiculous conditions and elevate their minds to such a state that they feel literal nothingness. No, Commander, not all men fear pain, but every man,” and here Vetinari looked at Vimes pointedly, “ _every_ man has a weakness.”

 

“Hah? What's yours, _sir_?” Vimes grumbled before he could stop himself as he gave the knots a final tug and, satisfied, let them be.

 

Vetinari simply smiled that vague smile he had for when he was ignoring a question and stared absently at the ceiling.

 

When no answer came, Vimes moved back a step or two away from the bed and surveyed the Patrician. Amazingly, the man was still partially hard.

 

Finally bending to remove his boots, Vimes glanced up and saw Vetinari's heavy-lidded eyes now fixed on him intently. He watched the pale chest rise and fall with every carefully-measured breath. Vetinari was still damnably in control of himself, but there was a hint – just a sweet hint – of that iron grasp slipping.

 

Clumsily and with no grace whatsoever, Vimes shrugged himself out of his shirt – one of his old threadbare ones, just in case. There was nothing sensuous about his movement, but Vetinari seemed to enjoy watching him; there was a quiver in one slow breath and Vetinari shifted again against the bed. The Patrician's eyes roved over Vimes' now naked chest, lingering on the dusting of hair and the small scar above one nipple where he had once been cut by a knife.

 

And... ah, yes. Vetinari shifted again, just slightly, and Vimes saw the slight strain against the material of his trousers...

 

Slowly, watching Vetinari's face, Vimes undid the black trousers and slid them partway down, finally releasing the Patrician's once-again achingly hard cock. Though Vetinari's expression barely flickered, a most definite lust darkened the ice-blue eyes. Vimes hurriedly turned his attention to the newly-revealed skin; that intense look was _doing things_ in the pit of his stomach. He could already feel himself responding as he explored Vetinari's body.

 

The top of the old scar from the gonne wound was just visible, twisted and discoloured against the milky-white skin of one thigh. Purposefully ignoring the Patrician's erection, Vimes focused his attention on it, tracing his feather-light touch briefly on the contours of warped muscle.

 

“It is more stiff than painful,” breathed Vetinari, pre-empting Vimes' question, though it took Vimes a moment to realise he was talking about the scar and not anything else.

 

“It's –“

 

“ – another time you saved my life,” interrupted the Patrician quietly. Vimes was grateful for it.

 

Slowly, barely keeping his own hands from shaking, Vimes finally allowed himself to touch the area of Vetinari's body which most craved his attention. And, yes, if he touched the Patrician just _there_ , just like _that_ , even if his fingers only barely grazed the skin, there was a noticeable hitch in the tyrant's breath and a sudden tensing of abdominal muscles. Vetinari's self-control was admirable but not perfect. The knowledge pleased Vimes more than he would ever admit to a living creature.

 

Vimes leaned back suddenly, leaving the Patrician on the bed with no contact. Vetinari strained against the ties again. Vimes drank in the sight of the most powerful man in the city reduced to a trembling helpless figure at _his_ touch. He could feel his own erection pressing against his trousers. _Damn_.

 

“Vimes...” It was a ragged whisper. Vimes bit back a moan at what the sound of it did to him. Vetinari's eyes were closed and his lips parted. The narrow chest still rose and fell in a carefully measured rhythm, but the breaths were shallow and rapid.

 

“Shit.” Vimes fumbled himself out of his breeches.

 

As he straddled Vetinari's chest to kneel over the prone man, Vetinari's eyes opened slightly. Once again Vimes found himself transfixed by a gaze that he would swear could see right through him, though this time it wasn't focused on his face. Vimes found himself feeling almost uncomfortably vulnerable.

 

Whatever embarrassment Vimes felt at Vetinari's staring at his exposed body was instantly forgotten as the Patrician's warm, _wet_ mouth enveloped his cock.

 

Shit.

 

Was that why they called him silver-tongued? Vimes groaned and tangled his fists in Vetinari's tousled black hair as the tongue ran along the length of his shaft and back towards his balls. Damndamn _damn_. _Shit_ and when Vetinari circled the tip with his tongue causing Vimes to jerk his hips forward and thrust into his mouth, and when that brought forth a small noise from the Patrician's throat which echoed against him and when that damn beard brushed just briefly against his balls and

 

_Shit._

 

Vimes growled and twisted Vetinari's hair through his fingers, almost holding his head in place as he thrust into that _damn mouth_.

 

“Wait,” gasped Vimes harshly, and Vetinari pulled his head back. _Gods_ but the man looked dangerously attractive, Vimes thought, with his heavy-lidded ice eyes and his ever-so-slightly swollen lips and that damn tinge of colouration on his cheeks...

 

Entire frame shivering, Vimes carefully moved himself down the Patrician's body so he was between the slender legs, aware of Vetinari watching him. He tried to move slowly and deliberately, tried to tease the unflappable Patrician, but his movements were made urgent by his own impatience and desire and his efforts laughable at best.

 

Vimes took Vetinari into his mouth just long enough to leave a glistening sheen of lubricating saliva, the taste lingering on his tongue. He was gratified when Vetinari trembled and panted beneath him and even more aroused at the moan – yes, it was a definite moan – of frustration when he pulled away. Vetinari looked positively wanton as Vimes moved again so that their hips were aligned. There was already a bead of pre-cum forming at the head of Vetinari's cock; Vimes twirled it around with his thumb and was rewarded with another cut-off whimper.

 

Taking both himself and Vetinari in one hand and fighting back a groan of his own at the sensation, Vimes marvelled at the delicious feeling of skin on skin as he started a rhythm, slow at first but building. He stared at Vetinari's face, wanting to etch it into his memory, and Vetinari stared at him. To his surprise, the Patrician looked away first, his dark head falling to the side as another stifled groan escaped him.

 

Vimes' free hand roved over Vetinari's body, reaching up to stroke over the shivering abdominals and the rapidly heaving chest, pausing briefly to pinch one nipple before continuing up the pale neck and brushing the parted lips. For a moment, Vimes' fingers were inside Vetinari's mouth, briefly attended to by the clever tongue, before he traced back down the taut figure.

 

Vetinari strained against the bonds, his entire body tensing. Vimes was suddenly aware of his hand being hotter and wetter. He steadied himself against the bed with his spare hand but the very sight of Vetinari in the midst of orgasm, of that perfectly unflappable man experiencing the most intimate loss of control, was enough to push him to his own.

 

The seconds dragged slowly into minutes. Somewhere in that lost, dreamy time, Vimes felt the Patrician's twitches cease. _Gods_.

 

Opening his eyes slowly, Vimes saw Vetinari watching him again, still panting beneath him. He reached over the trembling body with an unsteady hand and took one of the pieces of bandage from the table to wipe away the mess spattered across their stomachs. The last waves of orgasm were not the only reason for the shivers convulsing Vimes' body; the few remnants of adrenaline from his earlier rage were clinging stubbornly to his overexcited limbs.

 

Finally, he reached up and released the Patrician's wrists. Vetinari's hands fell away from the bedposts and he used one to run his fingers through his dishevelled hair. Vimes noticed how some of it, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead.

 

Before his brain fully caught up with his body, Vimes was tilting the bearded chin up and kissing the sharp mouth fiercely. He felt the Patrician, taken slightly by surprise, gasp softly against him. When those thin, slender fingers threaded through his own greying hair and started to knead into his neck and shoulders, Vimes found himself almost regretting keeping Vetinari's hands tied down. He promised himself that, next time, he would let Vetinari have free reign just as Vetinari had done for him. It was, he realised, an expression of trust, and he was increasingly comfortable and achingly lustful for it to continue in this time and in this place.

 

Ha.... _next time_?! Screamed his mind, pounding against the inside of his skull like a rampaging bull. _There wasn't even supposed to be a first time! You have a wife!_

 

Vimes broke away, slightly breathless.

 

“That,” said Vetinari calmly, “was like having my mouth assaulted by an ashtray.”

 

“Yeah?” grumbled Vimes, a little embarrassed. “For me it was like kissing a snake, _sir_.”

 

Vetinari gave Vimes an odd look. “Considering, Commander, that not ten minutes ago your penis was in my mouth, I would have thought we would be beyond titles and on to first names by now.”

 

Vimes still couldn't quite get used to the idea of Vetinari having a first name, at least not if that first name wasn't “Lord”. He didn't even want to think about the twisting in his abdomen caused by the Patrician's carefully blunt phrasing.

 

He settled for “... if you insist, Lord... S _ir_.”

 

“I do _have_ a first name, Vimes, I am not a schoolteacher.”

 

“Have – _look_ , this is _stupid_ –“

 

“Close enough,” said Vetinari brightly, and Sam Vimes could only blink once in astonishment and open his mouth partway to protest before his lips were caught in another firm but deceptively gentle kiss and he was most decisively silenced.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

1 Or pleasure, for those that way inclined, but Vimes was not and heard those sorts of screams _far_ less frequently than the others.

2 Vimes' efforts at farmyard noises that evening were markedly more frustrated than he usually managed, including a rutting sheep and a pig which sounded as though it was having explosive digestive trouble.

3 Just like most people who caveat their speech with 'no offence', Vimes certainly meant it to offend, at least a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to Kon for being beta, and I am very sorry for getting you emotionally attached to characters you know nothing about (not sorry). 
> 
> It's over 20k words. What the fuck.


	3. The Nanokatian Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not supposed to exist but it does for three reasons:
> 
> 1\. Vetinari deserves some closure.  
> 2\. I was bribed by ewela1130.  
> 3\. I am the Trash Queen of the Sin Bin.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

The rain had mostly stopped.

 

Vimes paused on the corner of Scoone Avenue and shook the water from his cloak. Rather than going straight home from the Palace, he had taken a detour down Filigree Street, hoping the cold wet weather would clear his head. It hadn't helped.

 

Had he really - ?

 

It had been fine during. There had been a heady, animalistic lust which had brushed his rationality aside and carried him through. He'd acted as much on instinct as he had on intent, and the result had been quick and messy and frantic.

 

Lighting a cigar and taking a thoughtful drag, Vimes blew a cloud of smoke into the night. Now that he had time to think, there was guilt and confusion and regret and...

 

... and a lingering vision of Vetinari's normally-saturnine face in the throes of orgasm...

 

 _Damn_.

 

There was still a light on in the house. Vimes looked guilty up at it as he blew another smoke puff. It would hardly be Willikins at this time of night. The fact that Sybil was waiting up for him somehow made everything worse.

 

How was he supposed to explain this? 'I'm sorry I'm late, dear, but I was just engaging in some light frottage with the local tyrant, don't mind me, by the way has Young Sam managed the night so far without wetting the bed?' somehow didn't seem adequate.

 

Vimes smoked his cigar and flicked the stub away. He considered lighting another one, but he was not that much of a coward, and he would have to face his wife sooner or later. He hoped he could do it before the guilt gnawed a hole in his stomach.

 

As he thought, Sybil was sitting up waiting for him, occupying herself by darning a pair of his socks. She had obviously been there a while; the garment she was holding was more darn than sock. Vimes kicked off his boots by the door.

 

“Oh Sam, you're back,” she said, looking up. Vimes guiltily noted the not-quite-concealed note of relief. “You're working far too hard, you know. I don't know _what_ Havelock's thinking, making you keep the hours you do. Are you tired?”

 

“A little,” grunted Vimes truthfully, taking off his cloak and folding it over the back of a chair which he then sank into. He saw Sybil look disapprovingly at the wet material on the clean fabric of the chair, but she made no comment.

 

“Do you want something to eat? I asked the cook to leave some cold ham and bread for you.”

 

Vimes shook his head. “I'm not hungry, thanks.” This, too, was true. His stomach was still doing backflips as though it was in training for an international gymnastics championship and it wasn't clear whether that was due to a) what had happened with Vetinari, b) the apprehension he felt about telling his wife, c) something funny he had eaten or d) all of the above.

 

“Sam, there's blood on your trousers.” Sybil sounded half exasperated and half concerned; Vimes coming home with blood on his clothes was not the unusual occurrence she wished it would be. Vimes glanced down at the smear. He had forgotten that Vetinari had been bleeding.

 

“Don't worry. It's not mine.”

 

Sybil gave him a Look. “Which poor bugger's been resisting arrest now? Has he still got all his limbs attached?”

 

“It's Vetinari's.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Havelock? He's not . . . ?”

 

“No no, he's – well, he's not _fine_ but he's still alive and I don't _think_ anyone's tried to kill him in the last two weeks, except possibly me today. We had a bit of an... altercation and one of his stitches slipped, I think.”

 

Vimes quailed under the look that Sybil gave him. Were the upper classes just blessed with naturally quirkable eyebrows, or was it something that they were taught in posh schools?

 

“I _do_ wish you wouldn't fight with Havelock, Sam. I do like the thought of our son growing up with both parents alive and not in prison.”

 

“It wasn't exactly a fight,” protested Vimes.

 

“Not _exactly_ a fight,” repeated Sybil sceptically as she leaned closer in, her attention firmly on Vimes' trousers, and examined the small bloodstain, “but something enough to draw blood.”

 

Vimes hesitated. This was what he had been dreading, but he couldn't lie to his wife. Not for long, at any rate. Somehow, Sybil always _knew_. Besides, she deserved to hear the truth from him, especially after how patient and resilient she had been over the last couple of weeks.

 

He sighed, his gaze fixed firmly on his own hands. “Vetinari gave me a blowjob.”

 

Sybil stared at him.

 

“What?”

 

“And then I wanked him off.”

 

“ _What_?”

  
Again there was silence. Sybil was staring at Vimes with a slightly dazed expression, as though she was trying to work out firstly what he had said and secondly whether he was joking.

 

“Oh,” muttered Vimes, “and he kissed me a couple of times. I think that's everything. Sorry.”

 

“Sam,” said Sybil softly.

  
“Look, I'm sorry! I don't know how it happened. One minute we were arguing and he was being an insufferable sod, the next he was as hard as a bloody golem –“

 

“Sam.”

 

“– and he propositioned me and I was so bloody tense it seemed like a good idea at the time. I don't know, I thought I hated his guts! _Damn_!”

 

The silence dragged.

 

Sybil opened her mouth a couple of times as though to speak, but she seemed to think better of it and her lips closed without a sound escaping.

 

“I'm sorry,” said Vimes again, hoping the apology would prompt his wife to say something. The silence was somehow worse than shouting.

 

“Did it... help?” asked Sybil finally. Vimes blinked. He had not expected the question; from being called to countless domestic disputes in the streets, he had been half-expecting screaming and crying and possibly household objects thrown at him... but that was doing intelligent, rational Sybil a disservice.

 

“Help?” he managed.

 

“You _have_ been a little... _tense_ since you came back, Sam,” said Sybil. There was a tinge of long-suffering something in her voice. It wasn't strong enough to be called accusation, but she had, after all, been the recipient of much of his anger and frustration over the past two weeks, whether she deserved it or not 1. “I've been dreadfully worried about you, you know. You've not been sleeping properly.”

 

“Oh. Did I disturb you?”

 

“Yes, but quite possibly not in the way you're talking about. Honestly, Sam, stop dodging the question.”

 

Vimes shrugged guilty. “I don't know. I don't feel like I want to beat the shi– crap out of everyone anymore, and I guess it's a relief to know that the basta– git isn't dead or in mortal peril but... _damn_ , everything he said was _right_ , but I still... bugger it all!”

 

Sybil sighed and laid her hand on Vimes' knee. He was immensely and immeasurably grateful for the contact.

 

He looked his wife in the eye and asked, “did you know he was gay?”

 

“Havelock? It never crossed my mind, honestly. I suppose I wondered sometimes why he never married or had children when we were younger, but then he always seemed married to the city.”

 

“But you grew up together, didn't you?”

 

Sybil smiled fondly at her husband's stubborn and endless lack of understanding when it came to the social norms of upper class life. “Oh Sam, when I say we grew up together I don't mean we spent all of our days together, playing hopscotch and throwing mud in the streets. We played together sometimes, and occasionally shared prep when our parents took us to social functions, but we were very young then. Sorry, Sam,” she added when Vimes frowned, “he went off to the Assassins at ten and I didn't see much of him after that, I'm afraid.”

 

Vimes tried to make sense of this. He was unsure how you could consider yourself to have 'grown up' with someone if you _hadn't_ thrown mud at each other and been involved in street gang turf wars. The lack of this behaviour amongst the societal uppercrust was yet another clamp on the vehicle of understanding. His own childhood, after all, had involved seeing a lot of familiar faces all the time 2, and there had _always_ been gossip. It was hard to keep things like sexual orientation and licentious encounters secret when you and twelve other people were literally shitting out of the same window.

 

A word bubbled up to the top of the steaming mess that was his internal monologue.

 

“... Prep?”

 

“Oh... you know,” said Sybil, waving a hand. “Little tasks set by tutors to ensure you understand the topic of the day. Sometimes things like etiquette practice, or Latatian declensions, or which of the classical Quirmian playwrights could be considered the greatest tragedian, that sort of thing. You know what I mean?”

 

“Yes,” said Vimes as his brain screamed a bewildered 'no'. The customs of the social elite remained complete and undecodable mysteries to him, even though he himself was now a grudging member of their ranks.

 

Sybil smiled knowingly at Vimes as his hand ensconced hers, which still lay on his knee. She could clearly see he was humouring her, but she tactfully let the matter slide. After all, you could take Sam Vimes out of the street, but you could never fully take the street out of Sam Vimes.

 

“To be honest with you,” she sighed quietly, “he's always struck me as being quite lonely.”

 

Vimes stared at his wife, who had obviously taken leave of her senses. “Lonely? _Vetinari?_ Are you mad? He's not human enough to be _lonely_.”

 

His ears glowed red as Sybil laughed at him.

 

It was only much later, when they were both lying in bed and Sybil's soft snores fell rhythmically in the otherwise silent room, that Vimes realised a quadruple amputee could count on his remaining digits the people Vetinari could safely allow himself to trust, and that Sybil had probably had a point.

 

oOo

 

For a number of reasons, Saltire Dance was a very unusual man. The first and most obvious was that he was a Morporkian, which was not unusual in itself, but citizens of Ankh-Morpork did not often venture into the flats outside of Hunghung, principal city of the Agatean Empire. He was also, despite being in the employ of Ankh-Morpork's Grand Trunk company as a surveyor, paid by the government as a public servant. However, in another unusual twist, according to all city records he had been killed in action during the brief war with Klatch some years prior and no longer existed.

 

Most unusually, at least contextually, he was the only living being in a pile of Agatean corpses.

 

Crushing the remains of the Dis-organiser in his hand and feeling the imp evaporate, Dance glanced upward at the skeleton clacks tower. It would have been silhouetted by the merciless sun if not for the fact that it was very decisively on fire.

 

Dance dragged himself laboriously into a sitting position with his back to one of the piles of timber on the construction site. Ordinarily, most people would probably have run from the fire and the twenty dead builders in case whoever or whatever had caused it came back, but Dance did not for two reasons.

 

The pressing one was that he was trying to stop his guts from spilling out of the open hole in his abdomen.

 

Glancing up again, Dance noted the direction that the wind was blowing the smoke. It hardly seemed necessary to light a flare when the smoke column would surely be visible for miles, but there was always the risk that the locals would assume it to be a bushfire.

 

Still clutching the wound in his stomach, Dance struck the match against the timber behind him and lit the distress flare. It shot off into the sky, painting a trail of acid green against the backdrop of grey smoke before exploding in tongues of bright yellow flame.

 

Sitting back with his eyes half closed, listening to the crackle of the burning building, Dance reached and closed his fingers around the handle of the bloodstained knife.

 

Hopefully, hm, someone in Hunghung would see the flare and come to see what had happened _before_ the fire reached him.

 

oOo

 

Of course it was just like the bloody, _bloody_ bastard, wasn't it? For almost two months, Vimes had been left to stew. Oh, the meetings had resumed once Vetinari had had his stitches out and was over the worst of the infection – that had been about six weeks prior – but there was nothing to even allude to that shared moment of frenzied gratification. No quirked eyebrow, no knowing gaze, not a single change in the cold calculation with which Vetinari approached _all_ his meetings.

 

It was as though the tryst had never happened.

 

At first, Vimes was almost thankful for it. It had been easier to pretend that nothing had occurred than it had been to think he had not only bedded the Patrician and survived, but that he had actually enjoyed it. As the weeks rolled past, however, he found himself increasingly angry at the lack of acknowledgement.

 

Had he been a tool for Vetinari to use and discard? Probably. The bastard seemed incapable of forging emotional attachments with any living creature aside from small canines so ugly they could only be called 'dogs' by default. By this point, it would not surprise Vimes to learn he had been moulded and manipulated yet again. This thought only served to exacerbate the anger.

 

What, mocked his cynical mind, did you honestly think that Vetinari had any real regard for you? You were convenient, and you played right into his hands.

 

But, argued the part that kept him human, he and Vetinari were bound together by being the only two surviving people to share the experience in the Plains, and that had to count for _something_. Even now, months later, Vimes found that he did not sleep easily, something that ate at him considering he had barely been injured. Sometimes he found himself wondering if the Patrician was as haunted as he was.

 

If he was, it never showed on his face. When he had resumed frequent public audiences, Vetinari's countenance was perfectly unruffled. Vimes _knew_ he had more grey hairs now than he had before, _knew_ that the bags under his eyes were deeper and darker, but Vetinari still seemed the same old Vetinari. It would have been admirable, if it hadn't been bloody terrifying how easily the man could seemingly compartmentalise and disassociate after being tortured to the brink of death.

 

The only thing Vimes noticed was that Vetinari had taken to wearing long-sleeved robes with tighter cuffs than he had previously, probably to hide the bandages which must still swathe his thin wrists, or to hide the scars that lurked beneath.

 

And, as inevitably as the two life certainties of Death and Taxes, Vetinari _still_ had the _worst bloody timing_. Vimes found this fact once again slapping him in the face as an envoy from the Palace approached him and informed him of an appointment.

 

It wouldn't have been such an issue, but for the protesters marching down Ars Lane and the counter-protesters marching up Sorterly Street. _They_ wouldn't have been such an issue if they weren't about to march into each other in Sator Square. Vimes wasn't sure what they were protesting about, but it only took a few angry words and a few fraying tempers for a peaceful protest to become a piece full protest 3.

 

Vimes had been organising the Watch to prevent the square descending into a wholesale slaughter when the bloody summons had caught up with him.

 

Which is why he was now pacing restlessly around the antechamber to the Oblong Office, listening to the irregular ticking of a timepiece that never worked properly instead of being where he should be – out _there_ , with his Watch, keeping the bloody peace.

 

“Come,” said Lord Vetinari's voice as Vimes' knuckles hovered over the door, ready to knock. Vimes knew the trick by heart and it no longer ruffled him in the way it used to. He pushed the door open and entered the Oblong Office.

 

The Patrician was standing at the window, his back turned to the room as he surveyed the city below. He still seemed unhealthily thin, or maybe that was just a side-effect of the sunlight streaming into the room and framing him as a dark shadow against the glare.

 

There was a second man present in the Office. He was a small fair man, quite squirrelly in appearance, with quick, watery grey eyes and a hand-me-down pair of glasses balanced carefully upon his sunburned nose. He was holding a hand-bound report which he appeared to have been reading from before Vimes' intrusion. For all the world he looked like a harmless, slightly bumbling clerk. That thought alone was enough to set Vimes' internal alarm bells ringing.

 

“Commander,” said Vetinari without looking round, “this is Supervisor Saltire Dance of the Grand Trunk Company. Mr Dance, Commander Vimes of the City Watch. I won't bore you with his other titles; they are extensive and I am sure you are aware of them.”

  
“Yes, hm, my Lord,” said Dance. His voice was as reedy as his hair. “Pleased to, hm, make your acquaintance, your grace.” He bowed elegantly, and Vimes noted the movement as he grunted a disinterested dismissal.

 

“Is this going to take long?” he asked of Vetinari. “Only we've got the start of some sort of marches going on in Sator Square and it looks like it might get pretty nasty, so I want to get back out there before it turns into a riot. Sir.”

 

Vetinari waved a languid hand.

 

“If you would please continue, Mr Dance, your fascinating narrative, and be so kind as to fill the commander in on the details he has missed? Commander, I think you will find this to be of vital relevance to you today.”

 

Dance nodded, giving a little cough. “Are you, hm, aware of a province known as Nanoka, hm, Commander Vimes?”

 

“I'm aware of it,” said Vimes blankly, glancing at the back of Vetinari's head.

 

“I was tasked, hm, by my employers to supervise the construction of a clacks, hm, tower in waste land on the Hubwards side of Hunghung.”

 

Vimes fought to keep himself from being distracted by the constant interjections. Was that a little chuckle, the most pathetic attempt possible at clearing his throat, or was the man just trying to remember what word came next?

 

“Partway through building, we were, hm, attacked by a raiding party flying Nanokatian, hm, colours. The tower was destroyed, hm, beyond repair. The labourers were killed.”

 

“But you survived?” asked Vimes tetchily before he could stop himself. Dance gave another quiet cough.

 

“I was stabbed in the, hm, stomach, your grace, but fortunately was able to, hm, light a flare. Soldiers from Hunghung arrived fairly, hm, promptly.”

 

“Why do I need to hear about this?” asked Vimes. Vetinari turned away from the window and regarded him thoughtfully, his fingers drumming the top of his cane.

 

“As a direct result of the raid on their public property, Commander, the Agatean military has mobilised and Nanoka has been annexed. There have been rumours, of course, but the arrival of today's trade ship has brought confirmation which has been inflamed by gossip and more than a little embellishment in the telling.”

 

Dance closed his report quietly and adjusted his glasses.

 

“The Company has, hm, withdrawn from the Empire considering the unstable political, hm, climate,” he said, blinking rapidly. The over-large glasses and beak-like nose made him look like a startled owl. “Their government is, hm, frustrated over the increasing Nanokatian aggression and I believe our, hm, withdrawal was the straw that broke the yak's back.”

 

“So there's been another war in some godsforsaken crack of the Disc,” said Vimes flatly, “and that's going to lead to riots in my city?”

 

The Patrician sat at his desk and pressed his fingertips together, surveying Vimes with an expression that was somehow more carefully blank than usual.

 

“Not quite a, hm, war, your grace,” said Dance primly. Vimes saw his quick eyes flicker just briefly to Vetinari as he paused before continuing. “It is more a, hm, simple mobilising of troops. A, hm, suppression, if you will.”

 

Vetinari was regarding both men with mild interest over his steepled fingers.

 

“Thank you, Dance, you may go. I imagine that your company directors will be most fascinated by your riveting narrative. Please don't hesitate to inform them of this most intriguing development; I fear Agatean capital may soon lose some of its not-inconsiderable value.”

 

Dance bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

 

“Leave the report on my desk.”

 

“As you wish, my lord.”

 

The door closed behind the little man with barely a click. Vimes waited for the sound of retreating footsteps and, though he heard them, he had to strain his ears. The noise was far quieter than he had expected. He looked back at Vetinari, his expression as set as though it were carved from wood.

 

“I was not aware that the Grand Trunk Company was in the habit of hiring Assassins as engineers.” The hint of a question mark lay at the end of the carefully phrased statement. Vetinari glanced up from the report Dance had left on his desk and quirked an eyebrow.

 

“That is quite the bold accusation, Commander, though of course I could not possibly comment on the hiring practises of a private company.”

 

“It's in the way he moves,” Vimes shrugged with one shoulder. “I've had enough dealings with the bloody Assassins to recognise some of the signs.”

 

There was another pause. Vetinari riffled through the papers of the painstakingly compiled report as though engrossed.

 

“Since when,” asked Vimes slowly, his brow creasing, “have Trunk employees reported directly to you instead of their company board, sir?”

 

“Since they return from lands far-flung with news of international importance which may well have some political clout even in our own uninvolved city.” The Patrician glanced up. “Now, Commander, don't you have a riot to quell? I should hate to obstruct you in the execution of your duty.”

 

It's never stopped you before, is what Vimes didn't say.

 

As Vetinari waved idly to dismiss him, Vimes caught the glimpse of a white wrist beneath the darkness of the robe sleeve. For the first time in weeks he saw no bandage there.

 

Saying nothing further, Vimes saluted stiffly and rammed his helmet onto his head with a bit more force than he intended, before turning on his heel and striding out of the Office, shutting the door with exaggerated care behind him.

 

oOo

 

Sator Square was a mini battlefield, or it would be as soon as the opposing forces stopped hurling insults at each other from a safe distance and started advancing again. On the one side marched the anti-Imperialist protesters, carrying flags daubed with the bold, striking colours adopted by the Nanokatian militants, and on the other marched the anti-violence Empire sympathisers, holding white flags for peace and unity. The irony, Vimes noted from the Watch position in the middle of the square, appeared lost on them.

 

As he lit a cigar, Vimes idly considered that he hadn't realised there were so many Agatean nationals living in the city. Most of the migrants seemed to go to great pains to keep themselves out of trouble with the law. Present company excepted, obviously.

 

“How's it look, captain?” he asked as Carrot approached, looking harassed.

 

“Honestly, sir, it looks like the dangly bits of a dog of the healthily male persuasion.”

 

Vimes hesitated as he ran this through his internal Carrot translator. The boy had adapted to metaphors fairly well but some of the finer points of language still escaped him.

 

“The 'dog's bollocks' is a phrase for when something is exceptionally good, captain.”

 

Carrot looked scandalised. “Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“ _Why?”_

 

Vimes puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “You ever seen a dog licking his dangles, captain? Of course you have,” he continued when Carrot nodded, “'coz they do it all the bloody time. And if they do it all the bloody time, then they must be dangles well worth licking.”

 

“Well, I suppose...” said Carrot doubtfully. Vimes flicked away some ash.

 

“Leaving aside the finer points of literary theory, captain, I would appreciate your evaluation of the current situation in non-ambiguous terms. No metaphors, please, just plain speech.”

 

“Bloody awful, sir.”

 

Vimes sighed. “I was worried you were going to say that. Anything kicked off?”

 

“No, sir, not _strictly speaking_.”

 

“Let's just pretend for a second, Carrot, that I'm interested in _any_ developments that have come to your attention, whether or not they can be defined as _strictly speaking_ kicked off.”

 

Carrot grimaced. “Reg was hit on the head by a flag that was being waved a bit overenthusiastically, sir.”

 

“Oh gods. Is he all right?”

 

“Yes sir, it only took him a moment to pull himself together.”

 

Trying to put the image of Constable Reg Shoe sewing his head back on in the middle of two braying mobs of over-vigorous flag wavers out of his mind, Vimes took another drag of his cigar. “Anything else?”

 

“Er, someone tried to throw a punch at Constable Dorfl, but I expect he'll regain full use of his fingers in a few weeks.”

 

“Assaulting Watch officers, eh?” snarled Vimes nastily, spitting away the burnt-out stub.

 

“Constable Dorfl _was_ holding him up by the shirt collar at the time, sir.”

 

“Was he? Why?”

 

“Er... he was hanging him up on one of the lamp-posts, I think. Up safe out of the way. He was only a small man, he ran the risk of being trampled.”

 

Vimes paused for only a second. Carrot's expression almost radiated innocence.

 

“... Right, well, good. Fantastic. Two accidental assaults on Watch officers and the fighting hasn't even bloody started yet. Pass the word round, would you? I want casualties kept to an absolute minimum, that's for our lads _and_ civilians. No batons unless there's threats. No officers to go off alone, got it? Oh gods, what's this scrote want...”

 

A young man was approaching the Watch position alone from the pro-Nanokatian side of the square. He held what looked like a small tablecloth that had been painted with the Nanokatian colours and was wearing hooded robes that were sickeningly familiar to Vimes. Unlike the men in the hovel, however, his hood was down, revealing smooth, young features and gimlet eyes set in a fanatical expression.

 

“The Empire has committed an act of unprovoked war!” he cried, jabbing his finger in front of Vimes' eyes as though it were a weapon. Vimes' gaze followed the offending digit, his expression unmoving. “What are you going to _do_ about it? Is Vetinari going to support the oppression of an entire race!? We want independence!”

 

He looked like a teenager, still wet behind the ears but burning with passion and anger for his cause and keen to make a difference in a world that was rotten to the core. Vimes recognised the look. He'd had it once himself, when he was that age.

 

Bile rose within him. Though still young, the protester was clearly a Nanokatian – he was even wearing the damn robes! – still of the same race as those heartless bastards in the darkened room, whose desire for independence and power came at any cost and whose idea of negotiation had been a whip and a candle and a living, breathing prisoner with his hands tied to the floor. _They would have threatened your wife,_ howled the beast inside. _They would have hurt Sam._

 

Looking the young Nanokatian up and down, he said, gruff but not unkind, “go home, kid, before you hurt yourself.”

 

The Nanokatian stood trembling in place for a moment as Vimes turned his back. Stooping slowly, he picked up a half-brick, one of the inevitable pieces of wrecked masonry that always seem to find their way to city squares, and drew his arm back.

 

Vimes turned as the kid threw the brick, which whistled past his ear close enough that he felt the disturbed air ruffle some of his hair.

 

It was a good throw. It probably would have cleared the square, if it hadn't been stopped short by Constable Visit's face.

 

oOo

 

The sun had set some time before and it was dark outside. The sounds of the demonstrations had died away long hours ago and Sator Square lay empty, except for the odd empty bottle or torn scraps of flag.

 

Vimes sat in the antechamber of the Oblong Office with his head in his hands.

 

He hadn't _intended_ to hit the kid, but the sight of poor Washpot stretched out on the ground with blood pouring from his forehead had been too much when his mind had already been half-filled with the thought of his wife and his son...

 

Damn. _Damn_.

 

Of course, the kid hadn't been _badly_ hurt, or at least not so badly that Igor wouldn't be able to patch him up. Carrot had pulled them apart before Vimes could do any lasting damage, but that wasn't the point, was it? He was the Duke of bloody Ankh, Commander of the godsdamn Watch... he was supposed to be _above_ assaulting civilians for petty, personal reasons, especially when they were little more than stupid brats.

 

Vimes was so lost in his own head that he didn't need the irregular tick... tock... ticktocktick... of the antechamber clock to morph his brain into cranial soup. It was already halfway porridge when he had arrived.

  
“Come,” said the voice from the Office. Finally. Vimes listlessly dragged himself upright and rearranged his expression into some semblance of emotionlessness as he opened the door.

 

Even though it was closer to midnight than sunset, Vetinari was sitting at his desk with every sign of being as fresh and alert as if he had just started the day on a full breakfast and generous cup of finest Klatchian coffee. He had in his hands an evening copy of the Times, which he was perusing with some apparent interest.

 

“Ah, Commander Vimes. I was just reading of your heroic exploits this afternoon,” Vetinari gestured to the leading article. Vimes' stomach tied itself in several knots as he glimpsed the iconograph. And the cartoon.

 

“Sir.”

 

“We came very close to a fracas in Sator Square, I see. My word.”

 

Vimes slammed both hands down on the desk, tearing through the paper between the Patrician's hands. “Stop it! Bloody stop it! You bloody know what happened, you know what _bloody happened_!”

 

“How is your Omnian constable, your grace? He was not too badly injured, I trust?” asked Vetinari, folding the shredded paper as calmly as though his furniture had not just been punched and his reading material destroyed. His gaze lingered on Vimes' clenched fists until they were pulled away from the polished surface of his desk.

 

“What?” asked Vimes, derailed. “Oh? Oh, he – Igor's patched him up, he – nothing permanent, just a cut and a bruise – apparently the concussion should be gone in a couple of days.“

 

“Excellent.” Vetinari's voice was quiet. “And how are _you,_ Vimes?”

 

“I – what?”

 

The Patrician leaned back in his chair and surveyed Vimes thoughtfully. “You are not the type, if I may say, to attack a civilian without due cause. I confess, it is rare enough that you attack a civilian even _with_ due cause. Admittedly, the man _had_ just assaulted a member of your command, but your reaction is sufficiently out of character for me to be concerned about your state of mind.”

 

Vimes deflated.

 

“It's these violent Nanokatian sods,” he admitted finally, his voice hoarse and very, very quiet. “Three months ago I'd never even heard of the damn place, and I was a lot bloody happier not knowing it existed, because now every time anyone bloody mentions it, it's with another story of people they've killed or maimed or threatened.”

 

Vetinari pressed his hands together as though praying. He tapped his fingers against his lips and his brow furrowed. He appeared to be trying to make a decision.

 

“Do you remember, Sir Samuel,” he said slowly, softly, “what Supervisor Dance said to you about the Agatean Empire and their recent activity in Nanoka?”

 

“Huh? Yeah, he said they'd annexed it,” Vimes sank wearily into a chair, massaging his forehead with one hand. “That's why there was that bloody march today.”

 

“Annexed was a wrong choice of word,” said Vetinari, who was now watching Vimes with an expression of intense and unnerving concentration. “Dance sanitised his report at my request. The _correct_ word, your grace, if I were to retell the tale to you now, would be _obliterated_.”

 

Vimes stared. Vetinari tapped his fingers against his chin absently.

 

“The Agatean government, as I think I have mentioned to you, has been increasingly inconvenienced by the Nanokatian sovereignty movement. It appears the debacle with the clacks tower was one they could no longer ignore. Nanoka has been wiped from the map, quite literally.”

 

“Obliterated?” asked Vimes weakly.

 

“There is no longer any such place.”

 

Vimes could do nothing but stare. The hatred he held for the Nanokatians and everything they represented and even the mention of their homeland slowly receded as his mind wrapped itself around this new information.

 

“What about the people who live there?” he asked at last. Vetinari regarded him thoughtfully.

 

“It is unclear at the moment, though I imagine by now they will have been reintegrated into Agatean society or dispossessed of their property. Uprising ringleaders, presumably, will have been disposed of.”

 

“What about people who had nothing to do with any of it? Who just wanted to get on with their lives? That's not right!”

 

“Unfortunately, Vimes, as much as I would like to take personal responsibility for the welfare of every citizen of every nation, I am only one man and my attention must be given to Ankh-Morpork.”

 

Vimes rose to his feet and watched the Patrician as he turned back to his paperwork. There was something... off. It was too convenient. Vetinari had been imprisoned and tortured – to Vimes' knowledge, the Nanokatians were the _only_ people to _ever_ have imprisoned Vetinari against his will, and certainly the only people to have humiliated him to that extent – and they had apparently been gaining influence on the Counterweight Continent, and now suddenly they were no longer a threat at all?

 

And of course, there was Saltire Dance, with his watery eyes and his unobtrusive manner and his Assassins' Guild training and his being the sole survivor of a deadly Nanokatian raid...

 

An Assassin would know where to stab, wouldn't he, if he wanted to inflict a wound on himself but miss all the vital organs? It would only take one man to set light to a half-finished clacks, and one well-trained able-bodied Ankh-Morpork Assassin would be more than enough for tired, overworked and underfed native labourers...

 

“Luckily for you, Dance survived,” said Vimes darkly. Vetinari's expression did not flicker.

 

“Indeed. His information has been most useful.”

 

“Did he tell you why the Trunk agreed to build a clacks on the Counterweight Continent? Or was that something he agreed to himself?”

 

Lord Vetinari said nothing.

  
“The Trunk wouldn't have agreed to build a clacks near Hunghung,” said Vimes, realisation creeping over him in a cold wash, like someone had cracked an egg over his head. “It wouldn't have been joined to anything! There's no towers between the Empire and the main line through to Genua, it would have been a standalone and of no use to anyone! Why'd the Agateans fund something like that? Did they know they were buying junk? Surely the company board would have told them unless Dance –“

 

Unless Dance had agreed to oversee the structure independently. But there was no point in building a tower which was connected to nothing, and the Agateans would surely have realised once it was finished that it was useless... so clearly the tower was never intended to be completed. Dance never believed it would be finished. He had not only anticipated the raid, he had relied on it... and that meant he knew for certain it would happen.

 

Vetinari's expression betrayed nothing.

 

So Dance had supervised the build until it was partway finished and then attacked his own tower and his own labourers for no reason other than to give the Agateans a reason – or an excuse – to wipe out an entire nation?

 

Dance was an employee of the Grand Trunk Company, but he acted without approval from their board, departing on ventures to the other side of the Disc and, upon his return with news that surely should have first gone to the company directors, he brought it straight to...

 

“Good gods,” Vimes breathed, half-awed and half-repulsed at the terrifying man sitting in front of him, with his cool detachment and his chessmaster's mind. “You – you _planned_ all this –“

 

“You have no proof of that, your grace.”

 

“That's how I know it was you!”

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, contracts between the Agatean Empire and the Grand Trunk are really none of my concern, and I have no influence over the Agateans and their military.”

 

Of course, Vetinari didn't need direct influence over the Agatean military, Vimes thought to himself. Not when he could manipulate them from thousands of miles away, with nothing but a well-placed spy and a promise of Morporkian technology that was never intended to be delivered.

 

And the beauty – the true beauty of it, if it could be called beauty – was that because everything had been orchestrated through a private company seemingly independent of the government, Vetinari could not be implicated, even if the deception _was_ uncovered...

 

Vetinari had utterly destroyed those who had made an enemy of him, and his hands bore not a speck of dirt.

 

“What have you done?” whispered Vimes. “What about all those people?”

 

“Fortuitously, a great threat to my city has been neutralised. I shall have to congratulate the Agatean ambassador.” He paused. "Though I fear that may be somewhat inconvenient, being as they have no embassy."

 

“You –“

 

“Commander,” sighed Vetinari wearily as he rose from the desk and walked towards the door, “let us assume for a moment that I _had_ decided to plan this ridiculously controverted conspiracy you seem determined to credit me with. How could I have _possibly_ anticipated the extent of the Agatean military response, or had any power to influence it?”

 

Moonlight streaming into the Office through the tall window illuminated the Patrician's already pale face. The thin scar beneath his left eye stood out a vivid white.

 

Vimes scowled but said nothing. Politics, it turned out, was one of the dirtiest words there was.

 

“And now, your grace,” said Vetinari impassively, “it is quite late and you have had a rather event-filled day. I think it is for the best if you go home.” He held up a hand as Vimes opened his mouth. “I will address the complaints I have had regarding your conduct today, but rest assured that I feel that your actions were due to exceptional circumstance, and I am not of a mind to take any disciplinary measures against you. I would hate to intrude upon your valuable time any longer.”

 

One delicate hand lay on the door handle. Vimes' brow furrowed as he realised he was being dismissed just like that. Again. Vetinari had acknowledged the cottage and what they had suffered, had acknowledged its lingering effect on Vimes' judgement even, but he still resolutely refused to even hint that he remembered the night in his bedroom, or to suggest that he regarded Vimes as anything more than a piece of meat.

 

Vimes slammed his hand against the door as the Patrician started to open it for him. Vetinari stared at him with both eyebrows raised in silent enquiry and Vimes smouldered as he unflinchingly met the puzzled gaze. He refused to be brushed aside so easily.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” he growled.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You've been leaving me to – to _fester_ for seven _bloody_ weeks! You've talked more about being beaten than you have about what we did! Was it that bloody traumatic for you?! After all I've done for you, do I not even get a godsdamn acknowledgement? I deserve _better_ at your hands!”

 

Vetinari looked uncharacteristically taken aback.

 

“Oh dear,” he said, in a voice laced with surprise and no small amount of concern, “I fear I may have misjudged.”

 

“ _Why can't you give me a straight sodding answer like a normal per–_ “

 

“I was labouring under the impression it would be easier for _you_ , Sir Samuel, to act as though nothing had happened, if only for the good of your family life and, more importantly from my perspective, to avoid jeopardising your ability to do your job. It appears I may have been mistaken. . . ?”

 

As the almost-question tailed off, abandoned, into an expectant silence, Vimes felt the angry words he had lined up fall out of his mouth without a sound. What? _What?_

 

Something resembling shame tugged at his consciousness and he tried unsuccessfully to brush it away. He'd been so righteous in his rage and so justified in his indignation that it felt like a punch in the stomach to hear the Patrician say, in an uncomfortably tired voice, that, for once, he had acted with _Vimes'_ best interests in mind...

 

“Well, it pissed me off,” he grumbled, sounding mortifyingly like a petulant child.

 

“I have noticed, your grace, that most things do,” said Vetinari unsmilingly. He was studying Vimes with an undecipherable expression.

 

Just as Vetinari had been staring at him for long enough that Vimes was becoming deeply uncomfortable, the Patrician spoke again. “I wonder, then,” he said clearly in a tone which was carefully measured but still somewhat tentative, “if you have no pressing engagements, would you let me detain you a while longer?”

 

oOo

 

Once more, Vimes found himself staring, somewhat bemused, at the grim green wallpaper in Vetinari's bedchamber while awkwardly wondering how he had ended up here _again_.

 

Crap, why hadn't he refused? He could have, he told himself, quite easily. Everything had been neatly cleared up and he could have gone home to Sybil and normality instead of abnormality and sex with Vetinari, but when the Patrician had given him that endearingly uncertain look and asked – not demanded, _asked_ – if he would stay for a bit, Vimes' lungs had almost twisted themselves straight out of his body. It seemed only a moment from his shrugging out a vague 'yes' to their walking down the deserted, murky corridors of the Palace together towards Vetinari's private rooms.

 

Amazingly, even months later, the curved sword still lay on the Patrician's writing table, next to a small pile of paperwork and associated writing materials which had immediately occupied Vetinari's attention as soon as they had entered the room. Though the weapon had certainly been forged by a master of the craft and could be called beautiful, at least as much as was possible for a functional tool with no showiness or flair, it seemed an odd choice of souvenir.

 

"Why've you kept it?" he asked conversationally as Vetinari's hand, holding a bottle of ink, passed over the hilt. After glancing up to ascertain Vimes' line of sight, Vetinari leaned back thoughtfully.

 

"I imagine, your grace, that you could not tell me what is special about it?"

 

"It's got a sharp blade," replied Vimes, remembering how easily it had cut through layers of thick rope. "Other than that, it's just a curvy foreign sword. It's only different to the ones the Klatchians have because it's thinner."

 

Vetinari put his paperwork down and picked up the sword in one hand. With an almost careless flick of his wrist, he drew a glittering arc through the air. The sword sang as it eagerly cut through nothing. "It is a Nanokatian design," explained the Patrician as he tested the weight and balance thoughtfully, "and the steel is folded several times to achieve the rather unique angle of the blade. The curve accentuates the cutting edge. It does have a name but, like most Nanokatian words, it has far too many syllables to be sensible, and I find myself without the inclination to try and remember it. It is not a standard war weapon, but nor is it ceremonial. It was designed with one purpose, Commander, and I wonder if you know what that is...?"

 

"Look," said Vimes in a sort of desperate impatience, "I just asked a damn question about why you've still got the sodding thing in your bedroom, I don't want a history lesson and I really don't care."

 

"It is for beheading."

 

There was silence. Vetinari smiled at Vimes as he carefully placed the sword back on the table.

 

"Beheading?" parroted Vimes flatly. "You mean like executions?"

 

"Quite so."

 

Vimes had a vague recollection of two men trying to force Vetinari to his knees. A curious sick feeling tugged at his throat. What did you think they were trying to do, he silently berated himself, beat him with the flat of the blade? Of course they were going to kill him! He'd just become a very dangerous liability rather than a helpless prisoner! And he'd bloody realised it when they left the room, hadn't he? That's why he was so urgent even though he'd just been set on fire, he knew what they were bloody planning! You were so _righteous_ , Sam Vimes, because you saved his damn life, but you didn't realise he'd damn well saved yours too! Did you think they would have let you live after you witnessed him murdered?!

 

"They should have hanged you," he ground out. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Only kings get the sword."

 

"I fear in Agatean territory the reverse is true, and peasants are put to death by sword while the more fortunate in society are given the luxury of hemlock. Of course, I have not the slightest desire to ever allow anyone to call me a king in your company, Commander. I fear that would be a somewhat terminal condition regardless of my personal distaste for the matter."

 

"You're not a king. I mean, obviously, we've not had kings for _years_ , but even if we did you wouldn't be one. You're not glitzy enough to be a king." He spoke on autopilot because, frankly, his mind was occupied elsewhere and swimming in disgust. There was something _wrong_ with the thought of Vetinari being killed in such an ignoble manner, on his knees, losing his life to a method of execution devised for common criminals. Hell, even the thought of Vetinari being made to kneel before _anyone_ was alien enough to be troubling, and Vimes had _seen_ that much when the man had been whipped.

 

"I shall take that as the compliment I am sure it was intended to be."

 

There was not really much left to say on the matter. The sword, while a deadly implement in the hands of those who would use it, was little more than a pretty trinket now, a memento of a place which could now only be referred to in the past tense. Though he had never imagined Vetinari to be a sentimental type, Vimes supposed it made sense that he should keep the weapon which had come so close to ending his life only to buy his freedom moments later. After all, he had been unable to destroy the Gonne, hadn't he? He'd given that to the Assassins because, despite being deadly and dangerous and nothing but a liability in the wrong hands, it was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship and a potent warning against the follies of humankind.

 

While still considering this in his penseive mood, Vimes found his gaze drawn to one of the candles. He watched the dancing flame for several dragging seconds as Vetinari flicked through the papers on his writing table, organising some into a neat pile and carefully placing others into a holding drawer.

 

“I'm surprised you still keep using them,” he said, only half-joking. Vetinari looked up to see what he was talking about and smiled wryly.

 

“Indeed?”

 

“Of all the times I've known people try to kill you, I'd swear that candles are the most common weapon. Even I have trouble touching the bloody things these days, and it wasn't my chest it was balanced on.”

 

Vetinari straightened up, his brow furrowed.

 

“Ah, but Sir Samuel, I have recently found the darkness to be even less inviting.”

 

Turning his head slowly, Vimes met the other man's eyes with his own. It was hardly as though Vetinari had just admitted fear – what Assassin-trained pragmatist could possibly be _afraid_ of the _dark?_ – but to voice a sentence that spoke of discomfort and disquiet...? Vimes was not a stranger to Vetinari's physical weaknesses; gods knew the man had more than people would at first assume, what with all the attempts on his life and their lingering effects. The knowledge that Vetinari had as good as told him of an _emotional_ weakness, however, was something that Vimes just could not quite reconcile in his own mind.

 

“You told me that there was more that happened in that room, before I was there,” he said slowly, still staring into that icy gaze. “What else did they–"

 

“I would rather not talk about it,” said Vetinari quietly.

 

“But –"

 

“I ask that you respect my privacy, Commander. At least for this.”

 

Vimes continued to look at the Patrician, who was now calmly watching the ceiling, and wisely decided to let the matter drop. Vetinari smiled faintly upwards at a mark on the patterned plaster as Vimes grabbed one of his wrists and pushed the shirt sleeve back, exposing the bare skin beneath.

  
“They've healed well,” he grunted, inspecting the discoloured marks. Vetinari's gaze drifted down to the wrist captured in Vimes' grip.

 

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “I was quite fortunate, I believe.”

 

Vimes pulled a face. “They were pretty grim last time I saw them. I thought they were going to rot off. Some of it was the same colour as foetid cat sick. Certainly the same smell.”

 

“You have such a way with words, your grace.”

 

“When did the bandages come off?”

 

Vetinari waved his free hand dismissively. “Some weeks ago; I do not recall how many. Certainly only after I was sure that I would not unduly fragrance my meeting room with - what was your delightful turn of phrase? Foetid cat sick. Goodness knows I have enough trouble persuading certain people to meet with me in there as it stands.”

 

Vimes shot him a sharp look, but Vetinari's face betrayed nothing but a painful innocence.

 

He turned his attention back to the wrist still trapped in his grip. Carefully, gently, he traced one of the scars. There was barely a sign, now, of the debilitating sores they had been, open and weeping and steeped with infection...

 

Vimes' heart almost stopped as Vetinari's fingertip was suddenly running down the scar over his eye.

 

“Don't touch me,” he snapped, dropping the Patrician's wrist and pulling his head back, away from the surprisingly gentle caress. His heart had leapt into his throat at the unexpected proximity of the fragile hand to his face and it seemed to be having some trouble finding its way back to his chest as it pounded out a rhythm far faster than normal. Vetinari regarded him coolly, his hand remaining outstretched.

 

“At your request I consented to being bound when we last had an agreement, despite the obvious complications,” he said eventually. Though his voice was dispassionate, there was a dangerous _edge_ to the otherwise conversational tone. “You take a lot, Sir Samuel, but you do not give in return. I do not mind being passive, if it makes you more comfortable, but I will not be an unresponsive doll for you so that you may sate your curiosity and return guiltlessly to your wife when you are finished.”

 

Vimes' first instinct was to get angry at the jibe and shout that maybe he should return to his wife because he shouldn't be betraying her again and she had been so bloody accepting of everything, but he realised that Vetinari had a point. Vetinari _had_ immediately acquiesced when Vimes asked for his hands to be bound, even though such a thing could only have brought back bad memories, and here was Vimes shying away because the man had once been an Assassin and was as dangerous as a loaded Gonne?

  
“Can you blame me?“ he muttered, glaring at nothing, “I'm still new to this, dammit. I still don't trust you, I don't trust what you'll do to me. But you're right, sir. Sorry.”

 

“Are you still unable to call me Havelock?” asked Vetinari, waving the apology away as though there had never been an issue. “Here I thought you wanted to _acknowledge_ our previous escapades, Sir Samuel.”

 

“I don't know why you piss and moan about me saying your name when you have as much trouble saying mine without a title,” crowed Vimes, triumphant over the petty victory. Vetinari gave him an odd look. It looked as though he was trying to hide a smile.

 

“To call you 'Sam', your grace, alludes to an intimacy I thought you would prefer to keep between yourself and your wife. . .?”

 

Vimes' brow furrowed. He had not considered it that way, but, in a twisty politician way, it made sense. Vetinari was not only protecting himself, he was protecting Vimes and Sybil as well.

 

“Well,” he countered, “most people only call you 'Havelock' when they want something from you."

 

"Lady Sybil uses my name quite freely," Vetinari pointed out.

 

"My wife isn't _most people_ , and I'll thank you to leave her out of it. Anyway, my point is I don't want _anything_ from you.”

 

Vetinari raised his eyebrow. The silent 'is that so?' scorched itself across Vimes' mind. _Damn_ the arrogant sod! But he was right. At this time and in this place, Vimes wanted _everything_ from him.

 

He was not desperate enough to voice that, howerever, because that would be admitting a small defeat and Vetinari already won too many of their encounters. A mixture of lust and the desire to claim victory over the Patrician rose within Vimes' belly. The damn quirked eyebrow and innocently enquiring expression and slight smile teasing the corners of the sharp mouth did _not_ help matters.

 

Bugger it all.

 

Firmly, Vimes grabbed Vetinari by the front of his clothes and pushed him back until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

 

Trying to persuade his fingers to act as fingers and not as sausages, Vimes clumsily unbuttoned Vetinari's shirt. This was made harder by Vetinari, whose hands were tangled in his greying hair and whose lips were very firmly pressed against his own. The Patrician's beard scratched roughly against his chin.

 

Vetinari pulled away when Vimes managed to undo the last button, and Vimes was unabashedly smug when he realised the man was slightly breathless.

 

He dragged his gaze down to the Patrician's gaunt chest and saw the lingering circular scar and the splash-shaped discolouration from the burn. It had healed well and Vimes ran his fingers over the skin, allowing himself a pause to tug at one dusky nipple and smirk in gratification at the soft noise he earned in response.

 

Vetinari's clever fingers were making quick work of his own shirt, which was already half undone. Vimes felt the pale hands pause against his sternum as his own wandered almost idly to the Patrician's sides and round towards his back. Vetinari pulled away slightly, looking at Vimes questioningly.

 

“I want to see,” Vimes said shortly. Vetinari blinked and stared at him for a moment before looking away, frowning.

 

“I do not think that is wise.”

 

“I want to see.”

 

“Is this another ritual of metaphorical self-flagellation, Sir Samuel? Do you wish to reconfirm the damage your inaction did to me?”

 

“No,” growled Vimes, “I want to _see_. I want to make sure you're not going to sodding bleed on me again if I get too damn vigorous.”

 

The Patrician sighed, but he was smiling faintly as he turned his back on Vimes and shrugged his shirt from his shoulders in a movement that was effortlessly and unfairly graceful.

 

Vimes narrowed his eyes as he stared at the pattern of scars on Vetinari's back. Slowly, he raised his hand to trace the one he remembered being the deepest and found that the skin was still ridged as though a long, thin gouge had been taken out of the muscle beneath. Vetinari shifted slightly as Vimes' callused fingers drifted lower into the small of his back and down to his hips...

 

… and stopped. Vimes hesitated briefly, still partially convinced that Vetinari would turn around and push him away any moment now. How far would he be allowed to go? How soon before he pushed his luck too much? It was one thing when Vetinari had had his hands tied to the bed, but quite another knowing that this terrifying man, with his politician's mind and assassin's body, was able to move freely.

 

Plunging stubbornly on, he slipped one hand between Vetinari's legs and was rewarded by a very nearly imperceptible shudder. Emboldened, Vimes slid a featherlight touch briefly over the Patrician's inner thigh before delving beneath the waistband of the man's black trousers. Vetinari drew a quick breath as Vimes' hand found his growing erection.

 

Vetinari turned and savagely crushed their lips together, holding Vimes' head in place with one hand. Taken by surprise, Vimes inhaled sharply and Vetinari's tongue slid between his parted lips to brush against his own.

 

The Patrician was easing his shirt down his arms, and Vimes shifted to make it easier for him, his own hand still massaging Vetinari's now-hard cock. Keeping their lips pressed together, Vetinari undid Vimes' belt and trousers, tugging them down.

 

Breaking away so he could see Vetinari's trousers to undo them, Vimes caught himself shuddering as the dark head moved, leaving a trail of gentle nips and small kisses down his neck and across his collarbone. When Vetinari's tongue teased one of his nipples, Vimes wanted to grab the man and ram his throbbing cock straight in to that damnably talented mouth.

 

“Shit,” he hissed as Vetinari's head dipped lower.

 

“Eloquent as ever,” murmured Vetinari against the skin of his navel. Vimes wrestled again with the idea of gagging him – at least he wouldn't be able to make smartarse remarks with his mouth full of dick – but he restrained himself. He'd already been inside Vetinari's mouth, after all, and now he wanted _more_.

 

Vimes cast his eyes around the room for some sort of lubricant. There was precious little in the Patrician's rooms, which were as Spartan and bare and impersonal as Vimes could ever remember them being. There was hardly a sign the man lived here. It was so uninviting that it was hardly a wonder Vetinari spent so much time at his desk.

 

His vision fell on a small bottle on the bedside table, next to an unopened envelope and a very thin, very sharp letter opener. The label read _Mi∫_ _stres_ _s Lache's Fine∫t All-Purpo∫e Moi∫turising Hand Oil with E∫sence of Lavender_. He raised both eyebrows in surprise as he picked it up.

 

“Can I use this?”

 

Vetinari glanced at it. “If you must.”

 

  
“Why do you even have it?”

 

Vetinari gave Vimes a look which said: The answer I am giving you is a lie, and I know you are aware of this but I will lie to you anyway. “To save my hands from developing calluses where the pen rests as I write. It is unfortunately an occupational hazard when one writes too much.”

 

Vimes returned the look with one of his own which said: I'm not a bloody fool. It's an Assassin thing, isn't it? No use pretending you don't do that any more. It's to save yourself from torn hands when you're scaling buildings and jumping rooftops?

 

Vetinari's look said: Nothing.

 

Uncapping the bottle and ignoring the floral fragrance, Vimes coated the two forefingers of his right hand in the oil. With his left, he pushed Vetinari backwards onto the bed and pulled the black trousers off all the way, stopping only briefly to leave a lingering caress over the old Gonne wound. He allowed himself to steal a quick kiss before he trailed his head down the man's front, at the same time drawing a line of oil down the very base of his spine.

 

Kneeling between Vetinari's legs, Vimes took the Patrician's achingly hard cock into his mouth at the same time as he pressed a finger inside him up to the knuckle. Vetinari inhaled sharply, his shoulders tensing. One hand twisted in the sheets beneath him as the other tangled in Vimes' hair.

 

A heady feeling of euphoria crept into Vimes' mind as his tongue kneaded the underside of Vetinari's erection, just beneath the crown. He could _feel_ the Patrician holding back thrusts. Vetinari was panting on the bed beneath him and _he_ , Sam Vimes, _was causing it_. As Vimes began to firmly massage his prostate, Vetinari _writhed_ , and a breathy, shaky moan escaped him. The sound went straight to Vimes' cock. Shit.

 

He continued until Vetinari was gasping harshly for breath and suddenly pulled away. Vetinari glared at him through narrow lust-darkened eyes, though the effect was thoroughly ruined by the glow of arousal on his cheeks, and growled, “you really _are_ incredibly frustrating, Vimes.”

 

“Good,” grunted Vimes, “because I learned _that_ from _you._ ” Fumblingly, he took a bit more of the oil from the bottle and smeared some on his erection -

 

\- and then Vetinari's hand had closed around him.

  
  
_Shit_ _._

 

Vimes' head fell back and he quivered under Vetinari's nimble fingers. Very quickly, he was thoroughly coated in lubricant, but the Patrician did not stop. One of his thumbs swished over the slit and gathered the beading pre-cum, swirling it around the head, while with his other hand he reached around to massage Vimes' balls. Vimes swore heartily, and then swore some more at the effortlessly handsome but infuriatingly smug smirk on Vetinari's face.

 

“Damn you,” he snarled, bucking his hips into those skilled hands. Vetinari merely smiled sweetly. The expression widened when Vimes grabbed his hips and dug his fingers in.

 

As Vimes pushed Vetinari so his hips were tilted upwards, the Patrician obediently let his hands fall away from Vimes' cock, instead gripping him by the shoulders. Vimes positioned himself between Vetinari's spread legs, hesitating briefly both to drink in the sight and steel his nerve. Then, closing his eyes slowly to savour the sensation, he carefully pushed himself in.

 

Vetinari tensed noticeably as Vimes entered him; Vimes felt the tight grip scratching at his shoulders. If his eyes had been open, he would have seen the flicker of discomfort that Vetinari allowed to pass over his face, gone before it could be noticed. As it was, Vimes had quite enough to concentrate on with the feeling of suddenly being inside the Patrician paired with the feeling of Vetinari's erection pressing against his stomach.

 

Shit. Shitshit _shit_.

 

This was so much more than a little casual frotting. _He_ was inside Vetinari. He was _inside_ Vetinari. He was inside _Vetinari_. The most dangerous man on the Disc, who could probably easily kill him even from this position, and he was _inside him_. All the power this man held, all the effortless cunning and political clout and coiled agility, and Vetinari was willing to submit to _him._

 

That knowledge was almost as frightening as it was painfully arousing.

 

Vimes became aware that Vetinari's hands were drifting from his shoulders down the tense muscles of his back. When they reached his hips, Vetinari pulled, forcing Vimes further inside him. Vimes swore again, drowning out the sound of Vetinari's ragged uneven panting, and started up a rhythm.

 

Heat pooled between his thighs with each rock of his hips. Vimes bit his lip and growled. If he leaned forwards just like _this_ and worried the Patrician's collarbone and throat with his mouth just like _this_ then each thrust caused Vetinari's erection to brush against his lower abdomen, leaving a trail of wetness. When one of these too-brief touches brought forth another delicious groan from the Patrician, Vimes reached round with one hand and started stroking Vetinari in time with his thrusts, his other hand remaining firmly on the bed to steady himself.

 

Vetinari's breathing became steadily more erratic. Once again, he tangled his fingers in Vimes' hair, guiding him in for another deep, desperate kiss and tasting himself on Vimes' tongue. Vimes indulged him and sped up, and Vetinari's thin frame jolted with each thrust, which in turn drove him faster into Vimes' hand. The stumbling gasps and intense expression told Vimes that Vetinari was close. _I'm doing this_. _I'm making him lose control_. The thought alone was like a powerful aphrodisiac and Vimes was unable to restrain himself, a growling yelp escaping as he roughly drove into the Patrician, burying himself in so far that his balls hit against the pale skin.

 

Though Vetinari made very little noise as he peaked, spattering sticky fluid over his own stomach, he tensed noticeably, seeming almost to freeze as his orgasm hit. There _was_ a gasp and a barely-there groan, almost soft enough to be called a whimper, quickly stifled. The sight of the Patrician splayed out, his abdomen trembling and his body glistening with sweat, was intoxicating. Vimes managed just one more thrust before he came, jerking and gasping and moaning a string of expletives. Vetinari kissed him, eagerly swallowing his loud groans, as he sank onto the narrow bed, half on the Patrician and half next to him, and waited for the tremors to subside.

 

The seconds melted seamlessly into minutes. Vimes lazily splayed a hand over Vetinari's chest, tracing the outline of the burn before following the contours of the man's abdominals to his navel, where he caught a globule of semen on his finger. Vetinari watched him with his eyes half closed.

 

“Don't you dare,” mumbled Vimes in a voice slurred by the intensity of his orgasm, “brush me off again.”

 

“Mmh, I consider myself suitably chastised, your grace. I expect you will make it known if you feel I need _reminding_.”

 

“Yes,” said Vimes, his lips hovering over Vetinari's but not quite touching, “I will.”

 

And, somehow, despite his perpetually bouncing between grudging admiration and abject anger for the tricky bastard, it was a threat he was willing to act upon and a promise that he very much hoped Vetinari would let him keep.

 

* * *

 

 

 

1Almost exclusively not.

2And punching a lot of familiar faces all the time too, but he tended to bring that part up less frequently around Sybil as her look of disapproval could put even Vetinari to shame.

3Full of body pieces, usually.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (´•ω•`) how do I sex scene
> 
> This chapter's political shenanigans (and title) are shamelessly based on the Mukden Incident (1931-32).


	4. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: stop.  
> Me: CAN'T STOP ADDICTED TO THE SHINDIG
> 
> Ewela asked for fluff and I am weak and easily led. I am also apparently physically incapable of writing any chapter that is not over 10k words why is this.

Vimes awoke suddenly and, for a moment, gazed disorientated around the unfamiliar room, pondering the too-small bed and the lack of his wife and the fact that he was naked. And most disconcertingly of all, half next to him and half beneath him, also naked, was...

 

… Vetinari...

 

The memory of an intense orgasm rushed back into his mind. Ah. That would explain the sluggish exhaustion. He must have dozed off, lying here with one of his legs between Vetinari's and his arm casually splayed over the Patrician's chest, half hiding the ugly scar on the white skin.

 

Lord Vetinari appeared to be asleep; his eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted and his breathing deep and regular. Vimes leaned up on his elbow and studied the sharp face, the angular jaw hidden by the fussy beard and a night's unshaven growth. He'd never seen the dratted man look so... _relaxed_ , and it was so unexpected that he was, for a very fleeting moment, irrationally concerned that he might have died.

 

Brushing a stray lock1 of dark hair from Vetinari's forehead, Vimes hesitated. He hadn't realised it was possible for the Patrician to _actually_ sleep – not be sick, or poisoned, or injured, or unconscious, but _asleep_. He rarely even showed signs of being tired.

 

A warm, sated feeling filled Vimes' belly and, to his own dismay, he found himself fighting the urge to lay his head back where it had been in the comfortable crook of Vetinari's arm and let himself drift off again.

 

… What time was it? He should probably go...

 

With a vague intention of getting up, finding his clothes and slipping away, Vimes sat up, easing himself to the side of the narrow bed and looking back when Vetinari shivered slightly at the loss of body warmth. Despite the age lining his face, the Patrician was... startlingly handsome, in a way that Vimes never fully appreciated when he spent most of their time together with his gaze firmly fixed on a point some three inches above the man's ear. Vimes wrinkled his nose up in disgust at himself. He was supposed to hate Vetinari. He _did_ hate Vetinari. He hated how the lofty bugger always manipulated him, hated the sarcasm and the cynicism and the damn eyebrow, hated that condescending way Vetinari sometimes spoke to him which made him feel like a guilty sullen child standing next to a broken window. In the years of Vimes' dedicating his everything to enforcing the laws Vetinari wrote and even protecting the Patrician's life at risk to his own, Vetinari had never seemed to respect him more than the grandmaster respects the pawn.

 

But the way Vetinari looked at him, the way Vetinari kissed him, the way Vetinari's mouth bloody _worshipped_ his body... and the way Vetinari moaned and lost control under him...

 

Shit. He couldn't continue this. It had already gone too far. There wasn't supposed to be a second time. There wasn't supposed to be a first. Vetinari wasn't supposed to _want_ him, and, more importantly, _he wasn't supposed to want Vetinari_.

 

Go back to Sybil, his mind screamed at him. Go back to Sybil and your son and forget every single bloody detail about the feeling of your dick inside your boss –

 

With a soft sigh to himself, Vimes leant forward slowly, still captivated by seeing the Patrician looking so vulnerable. Studying the pale face for just a moment more, he closed his eyes and kissed Vetinari's lips, savouring the rough, scratchy feeling of stubble against his cheek.

 

His heart almost stopped when Vetinari's lips moved against his and he pulled away as though he had been caught thieving2.

 

“I thought you were asleep!” he spluttered in an accusatory tone, glaring at Vetinari, who was watching him drowsily.

 

“Mm, I was,” yawned the Patrician. “I am, however, rather a light sleeper. Though, Sir Samuel, I must confess that I can not recall ever having been woken up in such a pleasant manner.”

 

Vimes _felt_ the blush crawling up his neck and there was nothing he could bloody do to bloody stop it. The mortification at having his cheeks burning like a shy teenager only caused the colour to deepen. When Vetinari raised a lazy hand to brush his fingers against the deep red, half-hidden by new stubble, Vimes pulled back and turned his head away.

 

“I don't like things near my face,” he said bluntly, partly by way of explanation and partly to disguise his embarrassment, “not if I'm not holding them.”

 

“A fair comment,” said Vetinari, his hand falling back as he stretched leisurely. Vimes found his attention drawn to the way the contours of his stomach moved and then looked away quickly, annoyed at himself. Vetinari didn't seem the least bit ashamed of being naked in front of his subordinate, but Vimes was suddenly overcome with the urge to cover himself despite knowing that Vetinari had already seen and enjoyed all of him. More than once. _Shit_.

 

Moving so he was sitting with his back turned towards the Patrician, Vimes cast his gaze around the darkened room and looked for his clothes. Almost all of the candles had burned themselves out, and it was hard to tell without getting up from the relative comfort of the bed whether the vague piles of material on the floor were his or Vetinari's.

 

“And how are you faring?” asked Vetinari, breaking the potent silence. The politeness of the question was undermined by the slightly slurred words. It seemed even the iron-willed politician was struggling to reassert full control over himself. That alone was even more intoxicating than any bottle of Bearhugger's could be.

 

Vimes considered this. How to put into words the mix of exquisite satisfaction and lung-crushing guilt that he felt at managing to add the tyrant of Ankh-Morpork to his small but select list of sexual conquests? How to find an adequate way to explain how tantalisingly attractive yet damnably frustrating he found the Patrician, and how, even now, he was torn between going home to his family or pushing the thin figure beneath him down into the bed and fucking him senseless again?

 

“Sticky,” he said, truthfully.

 

Vetinari stared at him blankly for a moment before he looked down at himself and grimaced. “Ah,” he sighed, “a bath, I feel, ought to be in the fairly immediate future. Would you care for one?”

 

“A bath?” Vimes baulked. “With _you_?”

 

“Hm? If you wish.”

 

“I –“ began Vimes, but he cut himself off. Putting aside the fact that his libido was most definitely telling him he _did_ want to bathe with the Patrician, engaging in such a personal intimacy, which went far beyond any quick wank or impulsive shag, would be accepting a level of affection that Vimes was not at all comfortable with acknowledging. “No, I – I think I should go,” he finished lamely, the words sounding flat and pitiful even to his own ears. Vetinari seemed either not to notice or, more likely, not to care as he gave a non-committal one-shouldered shrug but otherwise offered no comment.

 

It was so bizarre, Vimes realised, that the Patrician was so quiet when normally he had no qualms in talking Vimes into an aneurysm with vapid, empty words. Oh, Vetinari had a grand gift of silence which other people so often sought to fill, and he made great use of it, but he seemed to take a particular pleasure in talking Vimes to the brink of internal meltdown and back. It was almost out of character how he _wasn't_ taking this opportunity to do the very same. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised it wasn't just in this post-coital limbo. Vetinari had been so _restrained_ even when Vimes had been giving it all he had. Vimes had noticed the man holding back thrusts, but it was only now he could look back with an almost-clear head that he realised Vetinari had made almost no noise at all, even during orgasm.

 

“I have a question,” he grunted softly. Vetinari cocked his head to the side to show he was listening but gave no verbal response. “Why are you so quiet? You hold back too much.”

 

“Hm? During sex? I hear rather enough of my own voice every day, as it happens.”

 

“I thought you loved the sound of yourself,” snarked Vimes, rolling his eyes. Vetinari smiled at him and quirked an eyebrow.

 

“I find I quite enjoy listening to you, Sir Samuel.” It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Vimes found his cheeks heating up again and he turned away irritably, quite forgetting why he had asked in the first place.

 

Finally, Vimes rose from the bed and started extracting his clothes from the tangle of hastily-discarded garments. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the supine figure flexing some life back into the arm that he had been lying on and a vague feeling of perplexed unease tugged at him. Once again, it seemed that Vetinari had allowed for Vimes' comfort at detriment to his own. It was unsettling how much the Patrician – the damn _Patrician,_ the most powerful man on the bloody _Disc –_ seemed attentive to Vimes' needs over his own. Vimes was unable to help the wariness that gnawed at his conscious; Vetinari always had some deeply cynical reason for everything he did, and rarely seemed able to engage in any sort of interpersonal communication without there being _some_ element of manipulation.

 

Vimes turned away fully, unwilling to risk Vetinari seeing the uncomfortable frown that crept on to his face. It was too much to hope, wasn't it, after all the years of knowing the damnable man that he was simply expressing an interest in the well-being of someone else? But Vimes knew Vetinari too well to expect that all the tyrant wanted was mutual satisfaction, and it was hardly as though Vetinari was a stranger to playing games with the emotions of others.

 

It wouldn't even be entirely true to suggest that Vetinari regarded Vimes' personal affairs as out of bounds when it came to his damn political games – how many times had Vetinari used Vimes' marriage to further his own ends? Would this be any different just because Vetinari was now personally involved? Did Vetinari treat his bedmates with the same casual lack of concern as he treated his Thud pieces?

 

As he buttoned his shirt to the cacophony of suspicion, Vimes heard a movement from the bed behind him and he half turned in time to see the Patrician shrugging himself into a plain nightshirt of faded grey.

 

Wasn't it so like Vetinari, he thought. The man had enough power and influence and probably money to have the finest of everything – the finest clothes, the finest food, the finest furniture, the finest lover – and yet he always settled for nothing more than adequate. Vimes was angry with himself the instant it crossed his mind that he, too, could so easily fall under the heading of 'nothing more than adequate'.

 

“Why me?” he asked suddenly, his voice gruff and blunt with the annoyance he felt at his own damn insecurity. Whether Vetinari was using him or merely settling for him, he had to know before he let himself fall in too deep3. Vetinari looked up with an expression of mild surprise on his face.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You heard,” grunted Vimes as he pulled up his trousers. “Don't play silly buggers with me, sir. I know you better than to fall for that.”

 

A wry smile warped the Patrician's mouth when Vimes called him 'sir', but his expression remained otherwise calm and, for the most part, irritatingly impassive.

 

“Do you know,” he said finally, his voice light and contemplative, “of all of the many people who wish me harm, you alone retain the power to totally destroy me, and yet you do not. I find that utterly _fascinating_ , your grace.”

 

“Destroy you?” asked Vimes after the merest hesitation. Vetinari waved a hand idly towards the door.

 

“You could walk out of that door, Sir Samuel, with the knowledge that you hold and tear me down in a matter of moments. I would not be able to deny any story that you gave to the Times, whether you were to choose the fact that I am foolish enough to allow myself imprisoned or reckless enough to take a man like you to my bed. Oh, doubtless I could spin an intricate narrative to postpone an inquiry, but any medical man worth his salt would be able to easily verify your claims simply by examining me. If our good friend Mr Slant and those of a similar mindset were to learn of it, then it would be the end of me – politically and, I imagine, literally.” Vetinari was watching Vimes' expression of increasingly horrified revulsion with a disconcertingly mild interest. “You could very easily do what many men with increasingly bizarre and risky ventures have tried, and yet you do _not_. It is a breath of fresh air in a world where even the lowliest are constantly striving to rise, at the expense of their peers and all above them if needs be.”

 

“You – you actually think that I would – are you _insane_?” Vimes' cheeks were tinged red again, but this time it was not a blush. “I spend my life _stopping_ people from deposing you!”

 

“Yes,” said Vetinari levelly, “and so does Corporal Nobbs.”

 

Vimes opened his mouth to argue again, but Vetinari made a good point. Nobby, though not inherently _evil_ , was a terrible copper and, ultimately, self-serving in a very short-sighted way. It was not hard to see him, if he had access to something that he could make money from, selling it to people who would pay him without asking questions about who could be harmed by its publication. For Nobby, consequences were just things that happened to other people, much like good performance reviews, or baths.

 

Vetinari had told him once, hadn't he, that the world was full of such a mundane, everyday badness? A blind self-absorption which blinkered people and stripped them of empathy when their own betterment was a possibility? It had been proven, by both the dragon and the fiasco with the fake stabbing the secretary, that no one in the city really had any _loyalty_ towards Vetinari, nor were really even thankful for what he had achieved rather than sceptical of what he hadn't.

 

Suddenly, Vimes was once again reminded of his wife's words so many weeks ago, when she had suggested Lord Vetinari was lonely. How could he not be, with such a bleak outlook on existence?

 

“And that made you hard, did it?” he sneered, a little more heatedly than he intended. “You got hot and bothered the first time because I didn't go straight to the press when we got back to the city? You let me tie you to the bed and fuck you because I could destroy you if I chose? I had no idea you were such a masochist.”

 

“Because –?” Vetinari blinked wide eyes. “Good heavens, no. I was hard because I wanted to have sex with you, and I'm afraid there's no more to it than that.”

 

Vimes did a passable impression of a nonplussed waxwork model. He was sure that, on average, at least half of the time he spent with Vetinari was wasted staring blankly at him after he said something frustratingly complex or, as in this instant, unexpectedly blunt.

 

“All right,” he managed, his tongue feeling like it was fighting through treacle to get the words out, “but _why_?”

  
“Do you interrogate _all_ of your sexual partners, Sir Samuel, or am I just very fortunate? Had I known there would be a quiz, I feel I would have taken notes.”

 

Remarkably, Vimes kept the frustration from his face even if he wasn't entirely able to keep it from his voice. “Look, for once in your life could you just _answer_ a _question_?”

 

“Oh, very well. Presumably down to your rugged good looks and inimitable gruff energy,” yawned Vetinari, waving a dismissive hand but sounding far more amused than he had reason to be. “Of course, I imagine there is an element of self-loathing in there somewhere? That tends to be standard for this sort of thing, I believe, though it does lend itself worryingly to your theories about my masochistic streak.” He looked at quizzically at Vimes, who rankled.

 

“Are you asking _me_ why you want to sleep with me?”

 

“It is no more or less ridiculous than your asking me the same, do you not think?”

 

Vimes boggled. “No!”

 

“Then let me reverse the situation and ask _you_. Since when were you so receptive to the idea of intimacy with _me_ , your grace?”

 

“What? I –“ Vimes paused and stared at Vetinari's passive expression. When _had_ he become open to the prospect of sex with this infuriating, incorrigible man? When had the though of spending more time with him than strictly necessary stopped being repulsive and started being desirable? When had his fantasies shifted from punching him square in the face to kissing those thin, sharp lips and hearing a muted gasp...?

 

Uncharacteristically, Vetinari took pity on the floundering Vimes and he flicked his hand in a nonchalant dismissal. “You see?” he asked, and Vimes _thought_ he detected a hint of smugness. “It is a deceptively difficult question to answer, your grace.”

 

“All right,” grumbled Vimes, “you've made your point.” _No need to gloat_.

 

It was difficult, buckling his armour in the half-light and making sure it was fitted straight, but he somehow managed it. Just as he was about to put his helmet on his head, Vimes found his hand stayed, his wrist caught firmly in Vetinari's grip.

 

“I'm sure I need not remind you about discretion,” said the Patrician softly, his lips barely an inch from Vimes' own. Vimes sneered.

 

“Ever the sweet talker,” he said harshly, and he turned his head away without obliging the unspoken kiss. Vetinari's expression did not flicker as he dropped Vimes' wrist and turned his attention elsewhere.

 

Putting his helmet back on, Vimes quietly opened the door to the bedchamber and stepped out into the murky, deserted corridor beyond. His footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls.

 

“Ah yes, before you go,” said Vetinari quietly through the small gap between door and frame, “I wish to extend my gratitude; this is the first time in, oh, several months that I have slept easily. Good night to you.”

 

The door had already closed by the time Vimes spun round.

 

oOo

 

There was something cathartic about preparing one's own bath. There was an anticipation which just couldn't be achieved waiting for someone else to run the water, hoping they got it to the right temperature instead of the far more frequent skin-scalding heat or ball-breaking ice. It was one of the few benefits of creeping in to his own house like a burglar in the dead of night that there was no one left awake to run it for him, Vimes thought.

 

He'd felt a little pang of guilt when he'd seen Sybil curled up asleep in the master bed in his room. She'd looked so small sleeping there alone – but the bed was so unnecessarily expansive that even the two of them together would be dwarfed. Besides, Sybil knew where he had gone. She'd heard of what had happened during the protests, mostly because he had told her when he had gone home briefly to read with Sam. He'd wanted to tell her before she would have a chance to read anything in the paper, and, sensible and level-headed as ever, she had agreed that the wisest course of action would be to face Vetinari straight away, no matter how much Vimes had wanted the damn floor to swallow him and put him out of his misery.

 

Steam rose invitingly from the copper tub. With only a little hesitation, Vimes reached for one of the glass bottles of scented oil that Sybil insisted on having with her baths. It had been a long day, he reasoned, and gods knew he deserved to treat himself occasionally.

 

Vimes scrunched his eyes closed and attempted unsuccessfully to banish the memories of that evening to the back of his mind. Damn. In some ways, despite the restrained silence, Vetinari had been unusually talkative and yet, in that slimy politician's manner of his, he hadn't really answered any questions at all. It was almost admirable how well the bugger could dodge a query without the asker realising. It was almost _suave_. Vimes would have been irritated, if he hadn't been so grudgingly impressed.

 

He looked at the little bottle he had grabbed and smiled despite himself. Lavender. Ha, of course.

 

With a chuckle he managed to cut off into a cough, he unstopped the cap and watched one, two, three droplets of the oil fall into the hot water. Finally tugging his shirt over his head and kicking himself out of his drawers, he lumbered a little clumsily into the tub and sank gratefully down, relishing the feeling of the heat washing grime from his skin and aches from his muscles.

 

With a sigh of satisfaction, Vimes tilted his head back and closed his eyes. _Finally_.

 

The smell of lavender wafted up. Vimes' eyes slitted open and he stared unseeingly upwards. Lavender. He couldn't help but be reminded of the feel of Vetinari, on him, under him, around him as the floral notes of improvised lubricant cut through the heady smell of sex and sweat.

 

Vimes sighed again. With his eyes closed, it was all too easy to imagine that the warmth of the water was in fact the warmth of a shared bed. He stubbornly opened his eyes fully, glowering at nothing. Dammit, and Vetinari had offered to share the damn bath with him, as if the feeling of long legs wrapped around him would make anything any easier... _dammit_.

 

At that moment, Vimes would have given anything to be able to chase all visions of Vetinari from his mind, but that was, frankly, an impossibility; the image of the Patrician gasping for breath beneath him seemed to have seared itself across his conscious. He saw it every time he blinked. It was doing wonders for his libido but, at the same time, wreaking havoc with his sanity.

 

How difficult would daily briefings be now? He was never going to get that image out of his head of his naked Patrician, with that little dried but still sticky trail on his stomach betraying their frenzied gratification, stretching luxuriously in a way that would only have been described as licentious if it had been anyone else. Damn, even when he was holding back he still had Vimes dancing in the palm of his hand. Vimes released a shaky breath that he hadn't realised he was holding and sank his shoulders a little further into the water.

 

Godsdammit, now he was pitching a tent in the bath, and not the kind that was good for camping.

 

“Damn you,” he hissed through his teeth. The empty bathroom gave nothing in response.

 

With a short-tempered grunt which turned into a curse at his own foolishness, Vimes reached down between his legs and, for the next ten minutes or so, tried to convince himself that his hand was actually Vetinari's, and that the touch he cowered under was the Patrician's instead of his own.

 

oOo

 

Sunlight streamed through the large window into the Oblong Office, twinkling slightly as it reflected from dust motes in the air. The quality of the light was only slightly marred by the mid-morning Ankh-Morpork smog, which gave it a dank brownish tinge. Although the room was warm and the windows stayed firmly closed, the sun had not yet progressed through the sky enough to heat it up to 'stuffy' and it remained in the realms of 'tolerable', bordering almost on 'pleasant'.

 

Lord Vetinari was not the type of person to bask, particularly not while he was midway through the morning's paperwork, but he indulged himself in a slight stretch to ease muscles which ached with exertion after not having been used for far too long.

 

Probably not even the most meticulous observer would have noticed that he was sitting on his chair a little more gingerly than normal today. He smiled vaguely to himself. Vimes certainly had been _vigorous_.

 

His expression barely flickered when Drumknott entered the room and stepped silently through the shafts of sunlight towards his desk, though the smile slipped away as if it had never been there when the secretary approached.

 

“I regret to inform you that Dance is dead, my lord,” said Drumknott quietly, sliding a piece of paper along Lord Vetinari's desk. The Patrician skimmed it and sighed.

 

“Unfortunate, but not unexpected. Are the Watch aware?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I fear this one may be beyond them. I expect when they arrive they shall find all manner of clues, and all of them shall very decisively point in entirely the wrong direction. Either that or there shall be no leads at all. Was there a card?”

 

“No, my lord. There was only a pictogram carved into his forehead posthumously.”

 

Lord Vetinari pulled a face. “How distasteful. So, our mystery assailants are sophisticated enough to assassinate an Assassin, but crude enough to leave a brutish message, and I dare say I would not be dreadfully mistaken to assume I am the intended recipient. Well, well, well.”

 

“Would you like me to arrange an iconograph of the pictogram to be delivered to you, my lord?”

 

“No,” Vetinari closed his eyes thoughtfully. “I imagine I can make a fairly accurate guess at the general gist of it even without seeing it, and I have no particular wish to upset my breakfast.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “No, I shall leave that particular messy detail to Commander Vimes.”

 

“And upset _his_ breakfast, sir?”

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at a mark on the plaster. “Quite so, quite so.”

 

As Vetinari twiddled a pen between his long fingers and concentrated his attention on the reports in front of him, one of the many palace clerks entered the office and hurried over to Drumknott. There were some whispered words exchanged and the clerk hurried out again.

 

“It appears there is a man here seeking an appointment with you, my lord,” said Drumknott.

 

Lord Vetinari frowned slightly. “Good gracious me. Did he happen to leave a name?”

 

“No, my lord, but he is quite possibly a religious practitioner. He is apparently dressed in plain robes.”

 

“Robes, hmm? Let me see...” Lord Vetinari watched the unlit candle sitting in its plain brass holder on his desk. It had softened in the summer heat and was sweating profusely4. His lips twitched briefly as though fighting off a smile and he inclined his head towards Drumknott. “Tell him I will see him in fifteen minutes. Show him through in thirty.”

 

“Certainly, my lord.”

 

oOo

 

“I thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Lord Vetinari, when you must be so busy,” said a calm, heavily accented voice. Lord Vetinari glanced up at the Agatean man who had just entered his office. Though still quite young, the foreigner stood with the poise of one who was used to giving orders and the haughty expression of one used to seeing them obeyed. Remarkably, he seemed not to be suffering from the cognitive mush that most of Vetinari's guests experienced after listening to the broken clock for half an hour. Lord Vetinari was almost impressed.

 

“It is hardly an inconvenience. I happen to have rather a free morning, unusually.” He paused, surveying the stranger. “You have me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid. To whom am I speaking, and what do you represent?”

 

“I am known as Sōshi Reikan, my lord. I have arrived today from former Nanoka by boat.”

 

Lord Vetinari moulded his lips around the name and frowned. “Must we begin in this way? I do despise communicating with aliases; I find it makes it very difficult to speak honestly.”

 

“I would rather it stay as it is, my lord.”

 

The Patrician stared at the foreigner for several seconds longer than was comfortable, with Reikan coolly matching his gaze, until his face suddenly split into a bright smile.

 

“I suppose it cannot be helped, then, Mr Reikan. What do you want of me?” He paused, still smiling benevolently. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I'm sure I meant _Commander_ Reikan.”

 

Reikan shrugged. “In your language, captain suffices. I am sure you have heard of the escalation in the Nanokatian province? I hear it involved one of your Ankh-Morpork companies?”

 

Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “I have some understanding of the situation, though of course I have no meaningful interaction with the Grand Trunk and their business dealings.”

 

The two men matched gazes once again, each as cool and carefully blank as the other.

 

“I wish to negotiate a safe passage into Ankh-Morpork for refugees,” said Reikan finally. “Some have arrived by boat, some come by land, none have papers, most carry all their belongings with them. I ask you to allow them into your city without prejudice, and to grant them the same rights and privacy as any other migrant.”

 

“Certainly,” replied Lord Vetinari, perplexed. Both of his eyebrows were raised in surprise. “I like to believe that Ankh-Morpork is equally unsafe for all comers, and I have seen little evidence to the contrary. Racism is hardly an issue when we have such vehement speciesism to contend with, after all. In fact, it seems hardly necessary for you to have come to petition me at all . . . ?”

 

Reikan watched the Patrician's face, his own eyes narrowed. “There have been... rumours, my lord, that you look unfavourably upon people of my race.”

 

Lord Vetinari waved an impatient hand. “No more unfavourably than I look upon people of my own, captain. No, I have sympathy with those who are running from war and I am more than comfortable letting them settle in Ankh-Morpork should they so wish.”

 

The same heavy silence once again descended on the Oblong Office. Lord Vetinari seemed engrossed in the paperwork on his desk, which he was treating to a faint smile, and Reikan took the opportunity to stare out of the window at the smoggy city skyline for several long seconds before he dragged his focus back within the room.

 

“It is a shame, your excellency,” said Reikan, cutting through the awkward silence. Vetinari held up a hand to interrupt him but did not look up from his papers.

 

“Please, captain. I am not an excellency; lord will suffice.”

 

“My apologies, my lord.” Finally, Vetinari looked up, again piercing Reikan with his icy gaze, to see that the man was staring longingly at the ornate but rarely-used fireplace.

 

“It is of little consequence, and your Morporkian is far superior to my poor Nanokatian. You had something to say?”

 

“I regret that you have not lit the fire.”

 

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow and glanced at the fireplace. “It is the height of summer, captain. I fear if I did we should soon die of heatstroke.”

 

Reikan appeared not to hear. There was a curious expression on his face, which Lord Vetinari regarded with a certain degree of mildly unsettled interest.

 

Slowly, the Patrician rose to his feet and walked over to the fireplace, surveying it thoughtfully while he leaned on his stick. Everything about it was ornamental, from the andirons to the lintel, and though Lord Vetinari had spent quite enough time in his office for every detail to be familiar, he rarely gave it any regard past its function. Gilt or not, a fireplace was a fireplace if it served to keep the room warm.

 

He turned back to regard Reikan with a raised eyebrow. Once again, the man utterly failed to be cowed by the stern gaze, but his face had lost the enraptured, glazed look he had had just moments before when he was staring into the hearth.

 

“My sister is good at mixing the herbs,” said the Nanokatian conversationally, and Lord Vetinari's expression barely faltered at the sudden change of subject. “She can create a paste for your back, if you like, to ease pain.”

 

Lord Vetinari blinked. “My word. I was not aware I had a bad back. . . ?”

 

Reikan pointed at Vetinari's ebony cane. “Your posture, my lord, and your stick. Forgive me, I have assumed too much.”

 

“Ah. No, I am afraid you are mistaken. This is for an old leg wound, which unfortunately still sometimes troubles me.” He smirked as though enjoying a private joke. “A poignant reminder of past follies, as it were. I will bear in mind your advice, however, should I ever find myself in a position to need an analgesic.”

 

Again, Lord Vetinari subjected Reikan to a stare that went on for several seconds too long. Again, Reikan apparently failed to notice that he was under such intense scrutiny, steadfastly matching the gaze with his own blank black eyes.

 

Vetinari's face suddenly unfroze and dropped into a pleasant smile. “Well then, captain, if there is no more business that you need me for, you may feel free to leave whenever you wish.”

 

“No, my lord, I have no more business,” he rose to his feet. “I will not intrude any more upon your valuable time.” Reikan stopped, distracted by the Thud board, his eyes taking in the little stone soldiers in their positions. Vetinari noticed his line of sight and walked over to him, tapping his cane against the ground once or twice as though in consideration.

 

“Do you play, captain?”

 

“Yes,” said Reikan. “Sometimes.”

 

“Once,” said Lord Vetinari pleasantly, “a gentleman told me he plays to learn his opponents' weaknesses. I cannot say I agree with him; I find it far more instructive to identify one's own.”

 

“No, I play to learn the strength of my opponent.” Reikan paused at the door and looked back at Vetinari sombrely. “I find, my lord, that a strength can quite often become a weakness if the context is changed. I thank you for the audience.”

 

He bowed and left.

 

Lord Vetinari watched the door close behind him pensively, his fingers tapping a soft rhythm against the top of his cane. His expression did not change as Drumknott entered the office silently with a tray containing some miscellaneous papers and a fresh cup of tea.

 

“What an astoundingly reckless man, Drumknott,” the Patrician said thoughtfully. Drumknott followed his master's gaze through the window in time to see the small figure of Sōshi Reikan walking away from the Palace on the street far below.

 

“He seemed deeply unpleasant, my lord,” he observed. Vetinari frowned.

  
“He is, incredibly so. I am surprised he had the nerve to speak to me face to face, yet he came with such an innocuous request...” he sighed and left the sentence hanging unfinished, leaning on his cane as he surveyed the city through the tall window. “Riddles within riddles. How very irksome. Have him watched, will you? Discreetly, if you please.”

 

“Very good, my lord.”

 

The Patrician pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, resuming his seat as his desk as Drumknott arranged the papers before him. “On second thoughts, have him trailed indiscreetly as well. No doubt he will be expecting me to organise surveillance; it would be churlish of me to disappoint him at this stage.”

 

“As you wish, sir.”

 

“Oh,” here Vetinari allowed himself a small smile, “and do have someone inform Commander Vimes that he rather urgently wishes to speak with me.”

 

Drumknott nodded his acquiescence, glancing out of the window again as he did. His gaze was immediately drawn to the aura of scruffiness that offended his every sensibility. If he had been a man less practised at keeping his emotions from his face, Drumknott would have wrinkled his nose a little.

 

“By happy chance, my lord, it appears that his grace is seeking an audience on his own initiative. He has just brushed shoulders, as it were, with your last guest and is currently walking up the Palace steps.”

 

Vetinari gave his secretary a sharp glance. “Have you pre-empted me, Drumknott?”

 

“Of course not, sir.”

 

“Though,” mused the Patrician, tapping his thumb against his chin and looping the fingers of his free hand around his teacup, “I fear I may be becoming increasingly predictable, which is more than a little bothersome. Would you say?”

 

“You _have_ recently been far more lenient on his grace than you would normally be, my lord,” observed Drumknott neutrally.

 

Lord Vetinari gave this some consideration. “Hm. Astute as ever, Drumknott. Very well, see Commander Vimes into the antechamber and have him wait there for, oh, twenty minutes should do it.” He paused and made a face. “Actually, better make it ten. I'm not sure how many more wall repairs I can urge the public purse to cover.”

 

Drumknott nodded and left the room without a sound.

 

oOo

 

“Your man Dance has got himself killed,” snarled Vimes as he paced the Oblong Office, the unlit cigar hanging from his lips. Vetinari sat at his desk, the index finger of one hand resting lightly on his lips and the fingers of the other hand drumming the desk. He was wearing a pensive frown. “Someone's slit his throat and used his face as a piece of drawing paper. There's blood absolutely everywhere, Angua can't get anything out of it.”

 

Vimes slammed his hands down on Vetinari's desk. The Patrician ignored them, still tapping out a tense, erratic rhythm.

 

“We've got absolutely no leads. Care to shed some light on the matter?” the words were growled into his face, prompting the eyebrow to twitch in annoyance.

 

“Unfortunately, Sir Samuel, I am as much in the dark as you.”

 

“I don't believe that for a second.”

 

Vetinari raised his eyebrows. “You think I would purposefully obstruct the course of justice?”

 

“Yes, I do.” Vimes glowered at Vetinari, but it did not have anywhere near the effect he had hoped, partly because the severity of the glare was tempered by his inability to look at the Patrician without seeing flashes of those wanton expressions of lust and hearing echoes of breathy moans. Curse everything, his base instincts apparently had no concept of 'there's a time and a place'.

 

Vimes growled again to clear his head as much as to threaten Vetinari. It achieved neither.

 

“You know something,” he pressed, ignoring how sweetly he knew that sharp tongue could whimper his name. “I know you do. I just ran into another bloody Nanokatian when I was coming up here, he was even wearing the damn robes. Just come from a meeting with you, had he?”

 

“Yes,” said Vetinari tiredly. “He had come to petition me for the safe passage of refugees.”

 

Vimes faltered. “Why would _that_ need your permission?”

 

“It did not, which is why I am, I am forced to admit, _concerned_.” The Patrician smiled suddenly, but there was no humour in it. “Though I suppose he may also have been taking the opportunity to taunt me. Very daring. Very admirable. I would be very interested in your impression of him, Commander, if you would care to give it?”

 

“Huh?” Vimes shrugged, distracted. “I didn't get much of a look at him past saying he's scrawny. Why, what did _you_ think of him?” He sneered, a little more unkindly than he meant. “Left an impression, did he?”

 

“In more ways than you imagine, your grace.” Vetinari studied his hands briefly, his pale eyes half closed and distant. “He introduced himself to me as Sōshi Reikan and he was, as you correctly surmised, a Nanokatian.”

 

“Sōshi Reikan? Bit of a stupid name, honestly,” said Vimes the Diplomat, whose experience of Agatean naming conventions was best described as 'severely limited' with the caveat 'didn't give a shit'.

 

“It's not a name, Sir Samuel, it is a title. Its approximate translation would be, I believe,” there was a pause while Vetinari mouthed a word silently, as though his tongue was testing the weight of it, “equatable to 'supreme commander'.”

 

Vimes frowned, his eyes narrowing. “That sounds like a military rank.”

 

“It is.”

 

There was something about the twisted expression marring the Patrician's face. Vimes could hardly remember seeing him so flustered5, not even when he was being poisoned, not even when he had been shot. The last time he could recall Vetinari looking so harassed was around the time of that stupid war with Klatch, when there had been no possible chance of an Ankh-Morpork victory, when every manoeuvre Vetinari tried seemed destined to end in failure, when every light at the end of the tunnel had been snuffed out.

 

“Are you telling me,” he said slowly, staring at the bridge of Lord Vetinari's nose, “that the man you had a meeting with – the man I just saw leave – is the person who _orchestrated_ –”

  
“ - everything _,_ yes,” said Vetinari softly. “Your kidnapping and my incarceration. Plotted and executed in minute detail, perfect but for one irreversible miscalculation.”

 

“Even that you were tor–“

 

“ _Everything,_ your grace. I did tell you that he left quite an impression on me, although I meant it rather more literally than you intended. All accomplished from three thousand miles away, if he has only recently arrived with the freight. His ambition is admirable, certainly.”

 

An indignant rage boiled through Vimes, leaving him breathless. “You knew this,” he snapped, the words choking themselves out of his throat, “and you let him _walk away_?!”

 

A clenched fist slammed into the wall when Vetinari did not answer. It didn't help that the Patrician looked so haggard, that there was a definite emotion on his face when normally it would have been well disguised. It didn't help that Vetinari looked unsettled – dammit, Vetinari _always_ knew what to do! He wasn't supposed to show weakness! How many times had Vimes hated the look of omniscience on that infuriating face? How could he have known that he would hate the look of uncertainty more?

 

Vimes wanted to punch the man with one hand and – dammit, dammit, damn _everything_ – curl him in close with the other.

 

Ha. Vetinari's _bloody_ terrier, indeed. He was well-trained, wasn't he, snapping and snarling impotently at the heels of his master's enemies while wanting to lie down at the man's feet. He'd be fetching his damn slippers and begging for pats on the head next. Disgusted with himself, Vimes let his fist fall away from the wall and instead massaged his temples irritably.

 

It took him a moment to realise that Vetinari was speaking.

 

“ - to be observed, but I would also like you to have a patrol assigned to him. Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs will do. There is no particular benefit to being discreet; he will be expecting the Watch to tail him, and I feel it would be to our advantage to have him believe my law enforcement is inept.”

 

Vimes looked up at Vetinari through a cloud of impotent anger.

 

“Surely he's not much of a threat _now_?”

 

“On the contrary, he has nothing left to lose, and that makes him incredibly dangerous. Desperate men will take desperate risks, your grace, and he has lost everything from his power to his country. All he has to lay on the board is his life. You and I have far more at stake.”

 

“And yet you didn't kill him.”

 

Vimes found himself under the scrutiny of one of the blankest looks he had ever seen on the Patrician's thin face. The lines – whether age or weariness – were etched in deeply by the bright sunlight, and he found himself unable to hold the gaze for long, shifting his attention instead to the wall behind the dark head.

 

“Oh right,” he sneered at the silence. “This is _politics_ again, isn't it? Didn't stop you from killing those bastards in that hut, _sir_ , but now that we're back in the city, there's _politics_. Or is it just that you enjoy playing with people's lives so much? Sod whoever falls by the wayside, as long as you get your _jollies_ , it's like you don't even give a shit that you were –”

 

Vimes broke off suddenly as Vetinari stared at him blankly. He had thought that Vetinari had been unaffected by everything that had happened. The belief had torn at him, when his nights remained fitful and his sleep frequently interrupted, because it implied that he was weak compared to the Patrician, and he knew he was not. But, in small ways, Vetinari _had_ changed. He was warier, a little more withdrawn, a little more defensive, a little less readable. Not enough that a casual observer would notice, but enough that, in those very specific mannerisms, Vimes had trouble reconciling this Vetinari with the old.

 

Vimes had seen Vetinari bounce back from death's door several times. Each time he was like an onion, merely shedding another damaged superficial layer while the core remained unchanged. Perhaps this time the knife had cut too deeply.

 

“What the hell have they done to you?” he muttered softly.

 

Vetinari ignored him.

 

It made no sense, Vimes thought to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists helplessly. Vetinari was hardly the type of man to needlessly waste energy in a crisis, or to pursue a goal he knew was futile, and he would have known that he had no chance of escaping the bonds after the first attempts failed – but he had continued. He'd continued fighting until his wrists were torn to shreds, until he was bleeding and weak and full of fever. There was no possible way he had been that – that _afraid_ of a beating, was there?

 

Everyone knew that Vetinari was not hugely bothered by pain, and he certainly wasn't afraid of it. Hell, the man had tried to carry on as normal when his leg had been all but blown off by the Gonne – he hadn't even blacked out! What could have been so bad that he had tried so desperately to stop it, even when he knew there was no hope?

 

“What the _hell_ did they do?” Vimes asked again, his voice low and waspish as he concentrated on not slurring the words he was suddenly very wary of saying. Vetinari looked at him. “You had no other injuries! What the hell could have been so bad that you would inflict _that_ ,” he pointed at the Patrician's scarred wrists, “on yourself but not bad enough to leave _injuries_?”

 

“Ah, Sir Samuel.” Vetinari closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He sounded exhausted. “There are many ways to break a man without leaving so much as a mark on his body.”

 

“But wh–“

 

“You are trying my patience,” said Vetinari. His voice was like a blade of ice slicing through a spring bloom. “I believe I told you the matter was _closed_.” The pale eyes were still shut but the tone alone stopped Vimes' tongue dead. _I've seen you naked_ , he wanted to shout at the endlessly infuriating man. _I've had your dick in my mouth! I've bloody well jerked you off, I've buggered you witless! Why the hell won't you_ trust _me?!_ And at the same time, he sneered at himself for the sheer ludicrousness of his asking why _Vetinari_ didn't _trust_.

 

But...

 

But it was hardly as though Vetinari _didn't_ trust him, was it? It would be impossible for the Patrician, who had so much to lose, to engage in intimacy with Vimes without _some_ level of trust.

 

Surely the fact that Vetinari had gone to _sleep_ with Vimes showed that he felt comfortable, at least, that Vimes wouldn't stab him at the first opportunity? It couldn't be helped if Vetinari was too damn _proud_ to be honest with him, though, Vimes considered, pride was not a trait often associated with the austere Patrician.

 

He sighed and rose as though to leave, but Vetinari's tiny admission of weakness held him back. Of course Vetinari must trust him to an extent! He'd talked about sleepless nights quite openly, right? He had always taken a passive role when they had been intimate, hadn't he? He'd always given Vimes free reign, always let –

 

He'd always let Vimes do exactly what he wanted. He'd never asked for anything. He'd just gone along with it. The first time, of course, Vimes had asked him to take a passive role and he had agreed, but the second?

 

“Why is it,” asked Vimes slowly,” that you always let me make the first move? You never take what you want, even though we both know you could. You never even bloody _tell_ me what you want, you just leave me guessing!”

 

Vetinari raised both eyebrows and said simply, “I want you.”

 

The words throbbed straight into Vimes' groin. He tried to ignore the twisting feeling. _Damn_ Vetinari and his bluntness! The man _had_ to know what it bloody _did_ to him!

 

“Right now?” he gasped out, and he would have been lying to himself if he said he was entirely put off by the idea.

 

“Good grief, Sir Samuel, you are utterly insatiable.”

 

At least this time Vimes managed to fight the blush down before it tinged his cheeks, and he frowned at Vetinari. “I thought you were asking, _sir_.”

 

“As tempting as I find it,” said the Patrician as he waved his hand, “I unfortunately have rather a full morning ahead of me. As, I am sure, do you. Perhaps I will take you up on your offer later on?”

 

“Offer? I wasn't –”

 

“Aha, of course not. My mistake. Now,” Vetinari riffled the papers on his desk, “I have nothing further to ask of you, and I am sure you have a lot to be getting on with. Don't hesitate to leave, your grace.”

 

Leaving the Oblong Office in a mixture of anger and confused humiliation, pausing only to bury his fist lightly in the oft-punched wall outside, it wasn't until much later that Vimes realised Vetinari had once again successfully avoided answering any of his questions.

 

oOo

 

“Ah, Sir Samuel, at last.”

 

Several long hours had passed when Vimes finally made it back to his home in Scoone Avenue. He looked up upon being hailed by his butler, who, though immaculate as ever, appeared preoccupied as he approached. He was holding what looked to be a letter in one hand but, as he drew closer, Vimes saw it was closer to a receipt. “What's the problem, Willikins?”

 

“A gentleman came by, sir, with a delivery of,” Willikins checked the paper he was holding with a frown, “fourteen casks of Hersheban wine. He vouchsafed you'd been gifted it, sir, by an ambassador, but he neglected to mention of which country.”

 

“Hersheban wine?” asked Vimes, perplexed. “Hersheban _wine_?”

 

Willikins nodded. “Fourteen casks, sir. I've got 'em lined up for you in the cellar for checking.”

 

Curious, Vimes thought to himself as he followed his manservant into the wine cellar. It was hardly a secret that he didn't drink, and it was certainly common knowledge amongst the city's diplomatic officials. Any ambassador who was making a gift – or a bribe, if that was what this turned out to be – would know to send tobacco rather than alcohol.

 

As he had said, Willikins had lined up the barrels on one side of the cellar, separate from the other dusty, long-forgotten containers filled with various types of fermenting liquids. All of them looked the same, set apart from the others by the rosy colour of the wood and the large foreign symbol daubed on each. Bile rose within Vimes as he realised the symbol was very similar to the one he had seen written into the flesh on the deceased Dance's head.

 

“Odd thing about them,” said Willikins as he prepared to tap one of the casks, “is that they aren't nearly as heavy as they should be, but all of them sound full. I could barely hear any of the wine sloshin' as we brought it in, sir, and they're devils for sloshin' if they've been under-filled.”

 

Vimes watched as Willikins flipped one of the barrels onto its side and casually knocked the bung away with a mallet, replacing it with a rubber stopper. He considered putting a stop to it, faintly concerned that they may be full of poison, but he convinced himself that any poison virulent enough to cause death after a quick inhalation would be strong enough to corrode the wood, and there was no sign of damage to the casks. If it _were_ poison, he would be able to stop it back up and order Willikins to dispose of them somehow before any harm came to them. With a glance at Vimes, Willikins righted the barrel and carefully tugged the stopper away.

 

Rich burgundy liquid poured from the uncorked hole onto the floor. It looked like Hersheban wine. It certainly _smelled_ like Hersheban wine.

 

“All right, that's enough,” said Vimes tightly, the smell lingering unpleasantly. “Stop it up again.”

 

The flow trickled to nothing as Willikins replaced the bung firmly.

 

Vimes stared at the barrel. It had sounded full, but did not _feel_ full. Putting aside the possibility that it had been tampered with by magic, which was fairly unlikely as the wine had looked like wine and not some sort of eldritch horror from the Dungeon Dimensions, the remaining logical explanation was that the compartment inside was smaller than it appeared from the outside.

 

Which meant there was a secret compartment. Which, all things considered, seemed more than a little suspect for an innocent barrel of wine. Vimes frowned at it.

 

“Pass me that fire axe, Willikins, then hold this steady. I don't want to slip and slice my hand off.”

 

Taking care not to slip and slice _Willikins'_ hand off either, Vimes carefully split the top of the barrel with the axe. Peeling back the cured wood, he was both intrigued and perturbed to find that he had been right.

 

There was no sign on the outside that the cask's innards had carefully been divided into two. The bottom section, it seemed, held nothing more or less than Hersheban wine, as had been said by whatever mysterious courier had delivered it to his house.

 

The upper section...

 

Vimes frowned deeply, disgust showing on his face as he scratched his unshaven chin with his spare hand. He'd only seen the dark powder a few times before, but its deadly effects were etched into his memory just as surely as the scar from the Gonne was etched into Vetinari's leg. It looked – and smelled – like the dratted Alchemists' Number 1 blast powder, the very same firepower which had driven the weapon that had almost taken Vetinari's life. The top compartment was almost full of it; it had taken only a small amount to fire the Gonne, and what was contained in the single barrel of wine would have caused serious damage to any building.

 

Vimes spat his cigar on to the floor as quickly as he could and stamped it out.

 

It was a clever little trap designed to – to what? What would trigger it? It was hardly as though any person in their right mind would set _wine_ on _fire_ , even without knowing they were holding a barrel of explosives. It seemed impossible that someone would go to such pains to set up such an intricate trap but neglect to add in a way to set it off.

 

Even as he was thinking this, Vimes noticed the trigger. Meticulously attached to the underside of the barrel lid, perilously close to the splintered wood where the axe blade had struck, was a large, flat piece of flint.

 

The bottom dropped out of Vimes' stomach and he stared unseeingly at the split in the wood where the axe had been. It was only by sheer luck that he had not triggered it. Two inches to the left and he would have struck the stone, and all it would take was a spark...

 

Fourteen barrels of inflammable alcohol and explosive powder in a wine cellar? It would be enough to level his house. It would be enough to level the _street_.

 

Vimes ran his dry tongue over drier lips and looked at Willikins, who, having noticed the flint at the same time as his master, had gone very pale.

 

 _His wife and son were upstairs_.

 

It had been designed to be an obvious trap, in the knowledge that someone would split the top to see what was hidden in a concealed compartment, and, in doing so, would set off the explosion...

 

_His wife and son were upstairs!_

 

The axe falling from his nerveless fingers, Vimes turned and stumbled up the cellar stairs into the house with Willikins at his heels, overcome with the need to make sure that Sam and Sybil were safe.

 

oOo

 

Lord Vetinari looked up as the door to the Oblong Office slammed open with almost enough force to tear it from his hinges and was instantly confronted with a force of such single-minded determination it may as well have been an angel of vengeance.

 

“YOU INVOLVED MY FAMILY, YOU BASTARD!” howled Vimes, clearing the room in an instant and snatching Vetinari up by the front of his robes.

 

“Your gr–”

 

“Sam and Sybil! My bloody _family_! You almost got them killed! _You almost killed my son_!”

 

Shaking with a rage made incoherent by fear, Vimes drew his fist back and let the punch fly, striking Vetinari full in the face. Whatever shreds of rational thought Vimes had left wondered why the Patrician had not dodged his fist, or stopped his hand when he was more than capable. As it was, he was shaking so much that the blow was glancing, and probably hurt his knuckles just as much as it hurt Vetinari. Vimes cringed as he shook some life back into his hand, half convinced he was about to die and too far gone to care very much.

 

Blinking several times, Vetinari slowly raised his fingers to touch his lips. They came away sticky and red; blood was now gushing merrily from his nose. The sight caused Vimes' tenuous grip on sanity to slip even further.

 

“Why are you bleeding?!” he demanded hysterically, throwing his hands into the air. “You're not supposed to bleed! You're not supposed to get hurt!”

 

“Sir Sa–”

 

“ _You never get bloody hurt do you you bastard you always come out clean it's always me in your place you could have killed Sam you stupid –”_

 

Vimes drew back his fist to strike Vetinari a second time. There was a flurried whirlwind of movement and Vimes suddenly found himself pinned face down to the desk, his cheek pressing against the sun-kissed wood and his arm twisted far enough up his back to be incredibly painful without being permanently damaging. He could almost feel his shoulder popping out of alignment as two droplets of blood splashed down onto the otherwise clean surface by his face.

 

“Sir Samuel,” said the Patrician's voice by his ear, “if you try to hit me again, I assure you I shall break your arm. Now get a hold of yourself.”

 

Vimes stared almost unseeingly, straining against the iron grip, but the rhythmic drip – drip – drip of blood onto the desk's polished surface was oddly soothing, if a little macabre.

 

Slowly, slowly, his tense muscles started to relax and the more he let himself stop fighting, the less his arm was wrenched out of place and the less Vetinari's elbow pressed into his back just to the left of his spine. As the Patrician's fiercely strong grip eased, Vimes allowed himself to breathe again. He stared at the pooling blood, which still flowed freely.

 

Finally, his arm was released. Massaging the feeling back into his shoulder, Vimes sank into the visitors' chair at the desk and buried his head in his hands, trying not to throw up. Calmly, Vetinari took one of his black silken handkerchiefs out from a drawer and started mopping up the blood from his face.

 

Vimes sat with his head firmly in his hands, his fingers tangled in his greying hair and digging in to his scalp almost painfully. What a thoughtless, stupid thing to say – as if Vetinari never got hurt! Vetinari had suffered _most_ out of everyone embroiled in this stupid political back-and-forth, and he alone had the physical scars to show for it. But, at that moment, with the very real threat to the well-being of his loved ones, Vimes could not have cared less. If Vetinari wanted to risk his _own_ health, it was no bother of Vimes' 6, but how _dare_ Vetinari play games with the lives of his family?!

 

It took Vimes several minutes to calm down enough to consider himself coherent, during which time Vetinari's nose stopped bleeding. When Vimes finally dragged his head up out of his hands, it was to see the Patrician sitting watching him passively, his face clean and the bloodied handkerchief on his desk.

 

He'd missed a spot. Vimes stared at the little smear just above Vetinari's lip, almost hidden by the dark beard. It looked almost comically out of place on the otherwise perfectly groomed features.

 

Shakily, his hand trembling almost uncontrollably, he licked his right thumb and reached across the desk to the Patrician's mouth. Vetinari frowned and drew his head back a little, but Vimes leaned further until he could wipe the mark away.

 

The seconds that they stayed frozen in awkward tableau felt like minutes.

 

Vimes dissolved into the desk, laughing violently at the ludicrousness and the domesticity of it, and at the look of bewildered astonishment on Vetinari's face. It was utterly unfunny but at that moment he would have laughed at anything. Even a clown. The paralysing terror he had felt was melting into an all-encompassing relief, swamping his muscles and turning them into something which felt very much like jelly. They were wobbling almost as much.

 

Fist pounding the desk, Vimes laughed until his ribs ached, quite incapable of stopping for anything until he was sobbing for breath. When he finally, finally managed to choke the chuckles and push himself upright, he saw Vetinari watching him with an air of veiled concern. It almost set him off again. It was impossible to put into words how damn _elated_ he was that Sybil and Sam were thoroughly unharmed, safe now in Pseudopolis Yard with Willikins, with all those bloody booby-trapped barrels in Watch custody.

 

“. . . Sir Samuel,” began the Patrician slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. Vimes grabbed him by the lapels again and kissed him firmly, decisively interrupting him. Bells of euphoria echoed in his mind as he felt Vetinari tense slightly, felt those thin lips part a little in surprise, felt the beard scratch against his own unshaven chin. It was with some concern and more than a little guilt that Vimes realised he could taste the coppery tang of blood.

 

His shoulders were suddenly gripped by what felt like living vices. Vimes felt himself pushed firmly away and he opened his eyes to see Vetinari frowning at him.

 

“Uh,” he offered by way of awkward explanation as Vetinari brushed himself off.

 

“Your grace,” said the Patrician his voice remarkably level considering that he had been both physically assaulted and soundly ravished in the space of around ten minutes, “not being privy to the innermost workings of your mind, I feel I am lacking some sort of context for this _unexpected_ extreme of emotions?”

 

Vimes folded back into the chair, exhausted. His limbs were still trembling slightly.

 

“I think I took a delivery that was meant for you,” he said at last, matching Vetinari's gaze, his voice wavering but clear. In the light of the dying sun, the Patrician's ice-blue eyes looked almost grey. The bags beneath them seemed more pronounced than normal; a trick of the light, perhaps. “A shipment of wine in rigged barrels, designed to explode the moment they were opened.”

 

Vetinari watched Vimes in silence. Vimes could glean nothing from his expression. There was nothing to say he hadn't known of the trap but, equally, nothing to say that he _had_.

 

“I think they were meant for _you_ ,” continued Vimes, a tremor of emotion still in his voice, “because they had that same damn foreign letter written on them that your dead spy had on him. I think someone's trying to send a message to you.” He ground his teeth. “I would _appreciate_ if they would do it without murdering my family!”

 

Still, Vetinari said nothing. Vimes shifted, increasingly uncomfortable at the lack of response. There was something... off about the Patrician's expression. Vimes had never seen that sort of look on his face before and, unsettlingly, he hoped he never would again.

 

Then Vetinari finally said, “I can offer only my apologies. It appears that my fondness for you has brought trouble to your loved ones. This was... unintended.”

 

A hundred thoughts collided within Vimes and dragged his mind in different directions. What? Vetinari was _apologising_? What? Vetinari had admitted in as many words that he was _fond_ of Vimes? What? Vimes was being used as a weapon against Vetinari as though the man _cared_ about other living creatures? _What_?

 

“... _Unintended_?” he settled for, his voice strained. “Well isn't that good to know. At least if I'd set the thing off, the obliteration of my entire household would have been _unintended_.”

 

“Vimes, I –”

 

“No, this is _enough_ ,” said Vimes harshly, his frown twitching with poorly-supressed emotions. “ _I_ don't care about being caught up in your damn politics. Gods know I'm bloody used to it by now, but this _stops_. I won't ever forgive you if something happens to my wife or my son. I'll kill you myself before that happens.”

 

“I would expect nothing less of you, Sir Samuel,” said Vetinari. Vimes was perturbed to hear the note of relief in his voice. “However, I assure you that I take the welfare of Lady Sybil and your son extremely seriously. I doubt very much that they will be targeted again.”

 

Something in the way he said it made it almost impossible not to believe him. Maybe it was his skill for oratory that had kept him in power in a mutable, volatile city like Ankh-Morpork for so long? Or maybe it was just wishful thinking? Part of Vimes wanted to punch him again. How could he make a promise like that, when all of this was his fault? It was held back by the part of him that wanted to sob with sheer relief and overwhelming gratitude.

 

A sudden image walked across Vimes' mind and, grimacing, he recalled the skinny Nanokatian he had passed on the way to a meeting with Vetinari. It didn't take a genius to work out the player responsible for the barrels. A child could have guessed it, even in the total absence of proof. Although knowing he was not the target, Vimes was beginning to take the frequent threats against things he cared about personally. I'll find him, he vowed silently to himself as he watched Vetinari rise to his feet. I'll find him and I'll _end_ him.

 

Legally, of course.

 

“They're not _pawns_ for you to use in your _game_ ,” he grunted, looking up at Vetinari. Practised as he was in hearing the words that were absent, Vetinari smiled humourlessly.

 

“But you _are_ , your grace?”

 

Considering this as Vetinari stood over him, leaning on his cane and looking smugly amused, Vimes pushed himself to his feet. In the moment before he pushed Vetinari in the chest firmly with one hand and turned away to leave, he had the time to utter two words which caused a thrill to rush through him that he was _sure_ he saw briefly mirrored on the Patrician's face:

 

“For now.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

1 A rarity in itself; Vetinari's hair was usually immaculate, with barely a strand daring to sit out of place even when the man was shot or beaten over the head or having the best sex of his life. Vimes, with his perennial scruffiness, was unsure whether to be envious, impressed, or horrified by this.

2 Which, technically, he had.

3 As though this had not already happened. Vimes, however, was rather practised at self-deception when it was an easier alternative to accepting hard truths.

4To be fair to the candle, 'sweating profusely' was a normal state of being for anyone transfixed by the Patrician's unerring gaze.

5 Of course, Lord Vetinari's take on 'flustered' was much the same as the average citizen's attempt at 'immaculate'. It would not have been so eye-wateringly obvious to Vimes that Vetinari was distracted if he had not spent so much time a) staring at the Patrician and b) fucking the Patrician.

6Except the extra lines on his face from all the overtime he did trying to keep the bloody fool alive and healthy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably not fluff. (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻
> 
> Bury me with a sign that says "will write for bribes" or "can't jack off to integrity so who needs it".
> 
> One of life's mysteries will forever be whether I get off more to porn or politics.


	5. The Arte of Diplomacie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am living proof that it is possible for a person to exist entirely on Diet Coke, fic bribes and outdated memes.
> 
> Oh look, I spilled plot everywhere.

“He's all but disappeared. I've had no sight of him for at least a week.”

 

Lord Vetinari sighed as he surveyed the city far below. The late summer sun was valiantly trying to blaze a golden light over Ankh-Morpork, but through the mire of pollution the most it could manage was a wheezy brownish dinge. Steam was rising from the river, which, by now, retained the term 'waterway' simply by tradition and convenience, as there was nothing remotely watery about it.

 

“I must admit, Commander, that I was not expecting much. You did assign Sergeant Colon to oversee the surveillance, did you not? On my orders, I believe?”

 

“Right.” Sam Vimes' helmet was deposited on the desk with a metallic _crunk_ of protest, covering the half-finished crossword the Patrician had abandoned on his arrival. “I'm not mindless, I do have an initiative of my own. I don't care what games you want to play with him, he's a criminal and I'm going to damn well bring him to justice if it's the last damn thing I do.”

 

Vetinari shrugged one shoulder.

 

“I doubt I'm in a position to stop you; I fear you would ignore me if I tried.”

 

“Damn right!” Vimes snapped, slamming both hands on the desk. “He tried to kill my family! My _family_! And you let him walk away!”

 

The Patrician turned his head slightly, his eyebrows creased in a frown.

 

“What about what he did to _you?”_ Vimes took a shaky breath, straightening up slowly and arranging himself into something near attention. With only the barest hesitation, his helmet was picked up from the desk and held loosely beneath his arm. “You can't tell me you're just going to let it lie? Or was it just a minor inconvenience?”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“I am not ashamed to admit, if it will bring you that much comfort to know,” said Lord Vetinari softly, turning away from the window to face his subordinate, still with that same troubled frown, “that I am afraid of being returned to that room.”

 

Vimes stared at him, shifting his helmet uncomfortably. If he were less of a practical man, he would have assumed himself to be dreaming; there was something so surreal about hearing Lord Vetinari, Patrician of the damn city, admit fearing _anything_.

 

It was all he could do to manage an uncomfortable shrug and a non-committal grunt. Vetinari turned his attention back to the window, still musing quietly as though to himself.

 

“I admit to hoping by the second day that they would have the foresight to bring you in quickly. I...” he smiled a wan little smile that was gone as quickly as it had come, “was unsure otherwise how I would be able to free myself. They were unusually comprehensive, as attempts on my life go.”

 

“But they didn't intend to kill you,” Vimes pointed out flatly, and Vetinari turned slowly to look at him. This was something uncomfortable, hearing the Patrician talk in such a detached way about his own failure. It hinted at possibilities Vimes did not want to acknowledge. Despite his own, what, eagerness? to hear that he was not the only one who still woke in the middle of the night with the echoes of whip-cracks in his mind, he deeply wanted to change the subject. Some part of his mind nagged that his unsettling discomfort was intentional on Vetinari's behalf, and was yet another subtle way of deflecting his questions. “Not at first.”

 

Vetinari sighed impatiently again and flicked a hand in dismissal. “No, for better or for worse, my life was in no direct danger while I still had a potential value. They were even so good as to provide me with medical treatment when I appeared to be getting too weak, though that was primarily limited to quickly reviving me when I fainted and, sadly, did not extend to analgesics or, for the most part, food." Another wry smile touched the sharp lips at the look on Vimes' face. "Fainted from _pain_ , your grace; contrary to your astoundingly misguided belief, I do actually experience it."

 

Vimes opened his mouth. "I didn't say-"

 

"I do not feel unjustified in admitting to you, however, that I fear my value, or at least their _perception_ of my value, is the _only_ reason I survived for as long as I did.”

 

For as long as he could bear, Vimes stared into the pale blue eyes but, after several slow seconds, he looked away and grit his teeth, deaf to everything but Vetinari's quiet, solemn admission of weakness. He didn't even hear Vetinari give him permission to continue his investigation as he chose, though he had already set his mind on _that_ and needed the permission of _no-one_. If he didn't go after this man personally, he would lose all respect for himself.

 

After Vimes had turned on his heel and left, Vetinari summoned his secretary to him. Drumknott approached, silent and wraithlike, as his master meticulously wrote neat instructions, which he handed to his faithful clerk without a word.

 

Drumknott glanced at the paper, nodded once and left the office, making as much noise as though he were not there at all.

 

oOo

 

Lord Vetinari looked up as the door to his office opened quietly. He set aside his pen and steepled his fingers, the papers in front of him momentarily forgotten.

 

“Ah, Drumknott. You have the names?” When his secretary nodded an affirmative, Vetinari flashed a sharp, humourless smile. “Well?”

 

“Three names of immediate interest, my lord. First is Kubo Erabareshi. He specialises in import goods, primarily from Hubwards sources but he does deal with Muntab, Klatch and Hersheba. He seems to act as a supplier to other businesses rather than selling his goods to the public directly. He left the city frequently in the spring for short periods, ostensibly to meet with potential investors.”

 

“Erabareshi, Erabareshi...” Vetinari tapped his lips with one finger thoughtfully. “I believe there is a cold store cellar on Callow Street called the same?”

 

Drumknott riffled through his papers. “It would appear that is the building, my lord.”

 

“Indeed? How very interesting. The second name...?”

 

“A woman, my lord. One Shikara Reta. She has a membership of the Guild of Alchemists. It appears she keeps a small alchemical sundries shop on College Lane and I believe she acts as one of the Guild's suppliers. She has been in the city for a number of years and has offered translation services to government officials in the past. She is noted within Guild circles for developing a new and more cost-effective blast powder based on the existing formula.”

 

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “And the third?”

 

“Hyakkuin Han of the Guild of Gamblers, my lord. His primary income is the investment of money on stocks of imported wine, of which Hersheban makes quite a large percentage. Apparently he also provides bookkeeping services for the Guild's treasury.”

 

This was carefully considered. “I doubt very much that he is involved.”

 

“My lord?” asked Drumknott neutrally, his expression bland as ever. Vetinari rolled his eyes skyward in a passable impression of despair.

 

“Drumknott, unless I am woefully mistaken, the man's personal slice of wisdom is, and I quote, 'you can't spell Chancellor without chance'. I must confess, I'm not _entirely_ convinced that such a philosophy is indicative of a mind capable of keeping an account book in order, let alone planning this impressively _flamboyant_ assassination attempt.”

 

“He _is_ a gambler, my lord,” pointed out Drumknott. Vetinari sighed.

 

“An astute observation. Very well, have levies placed on the traders and freeze Mr Han's assets. Have someone investigate the accounts and... yes, and the shop premises. Oh, but Drumknott, do ask them to be subtle. I am so often informed that ignorance is bliss, and I would not wish to cause any law-abiding citizen any unnecessary upset.”

 

The secretary looked, if such a thing were possible, even more blank than usual. “My goodness, sir. Really?”

 

“Drumknott, are you suggesting I am needlessly tyrannical?”

 

“Only that the name Vimes springs to mind when you mention unnecessary upset, sir.”

 

Vetinari's hand rose, his mouth disappearing from sight behind it as long, pale fingers brushed briefly across thin lips. The fleeting smile was perfectly disguised.

 

“Oh, _do_ go away, Drumknott.”

 

oOo

 

Vimes sighed irritably, squinting at the two rough marks in front of him. On his left, the iconograph of Saltire Dance's forehead and the grisly symbol carved into it by none-too-careful hands and, on his right, a small piece of wood from one of the booby-trapped barrels.

 

It had been quite a surprise when Willikins, who had been carefully dismantling the barrels on the very day they had been delivered and disarmed, had brought him the slat. The inside of it had been carved with the very same picture, which was spiky and complex and had altogether too many lines for Vimes to consider it sensible.

 

When he'd seen it sliced into Dance's face, he'd assumed it was a message. Now that the same mark had cropped up again, he was certain of it. But how could it be a message in just one mark? Unless the Nanokatians had a letter for 'drop dead you bastards', which was an economy of script not even Vetinari could manage, it didn't seem possible that anything of substance could be written there.

 

Now though, with his surveillance failing and obtaining information from Vetinari about as easy as squeezing milk from a rock, it looked like the innocuous little symbol was going to be his last lead.

 

The cut-off barrel slat had lain in its wine-stained splendour on Vimes' desk for the past several days next to the iconograph and several of his hastily scribbled and just-as-hastily abandoned sketches. He couldn't make head nor tail of it, and even the insurmountable paperwork heap on his desk, which had evolved from single peak into full mountain range, seemed more inviting.

 

“Damn,” he growled at it again, turning his head to the right and squinting harder, achieving nothing except a brief but unpleasant encounter with double-vision.

 

“Sir?”

 

Vimes looked up, blinking his blurry eyes, to see the reassuring height of Captain Carrot stoop through his office door.

 

“Afternoon, captain.”

 

“Afternoon, sir. Coming in off patrol – all's well but for Done It Duncan, who's said he's robbed another shop, sir, but I reckon he's pulling the belled one on account of there being nothing missing.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I've got him in a nice cozy cell for the rest of the day, sir, that should keep him happy.”

 

“Brilliant,” said Vimes. “It's refreshing to know that you're keeping our streets safe, Carrot.”

 

Carrot's open face twisted slightly. He looked a little hurt. “Was that sarcasm, sir?”

 

It was like kicking a starving puppy and breaking its teeth. Vimes shook his head, regretting his ill-timed jibe. The _old_ Carrot, the pre-context Carrot, would have taken the compliment at face value and been happy. Sometimes Vimes wished that Angua _hadn't_ taught Carrot about the subtleties of sarcasm and irony and metaphor, though having a conversation with the lad was a lot easier these days than it ever had been before. The thought of a Carrot armed with literary weapons such as _rhetoric_ was at once intriguing and, frankly, terrifying. Mercifully, however, Carrot still struggled with the finer points of inference, and the days of him as a truly formidable orator still seemed a long way off.

 

“Sorry, captain,” Vimes sighed. “It's these damn squiggles, they're getting to me. I think I've been watching them too long, I'd swear they're starting to move.”

 

He turned the piece of barrel around so that Carrot could see what was carved there and was quite surprised when, instead of looking lost and confused and shrugging his condolences, Carrot appeared to brighten up.

 

“That looks like a Firebird,” he said thoughtfully, staring at the mark.

 

“A what? A phoenix?” Vimes squinted again, tilting his head. “I _guess_...”

 

“No, sir, not a phoenix. A _Firebird_. They live in hot climates. They're a type of crow, I think, but they're bright red with little yellow bits.”

 

“They're not actually on fire, right?”

 

“I shouldn't think so, sir, that wouldn't be hugely healthy. I think it's just a poetic name.”

 

“Oh good,” said Vimes. “Poetry.”

 

“You see them represented quite a lot in Counterweight pictographs. I think they're considered lucky. Look,” Carrot jabbed one finger at a corner of the mark which looked to Vimes like nothing more than an upside-down L, “I think that's the beak, and that loopy bit at the bottom looks just like the long tails they have.”

 

“Carrot,” Vimes slowly lifted a new cigar to his mouth and lit it with all the leisure of the addict relishing the drug. “I realise I might regret asking this, but – _how_ in the _hell_ do you know that?”

 

Carrot beamed a wide smile. “Mr Xiao over on Endless Street has an impressive collection of Counterweight signatory stamps, sir, and he's always happy to let me have a look when I'm off duty.”

 

Vimes stared up into that honest, open face. My gods, he thought, he's _proud_ of the damn things. They aren't even his! He's genuinely interested in some old man's collection of family mementoes, just like he's interested in every musty hoard of dubiously-valued artefacts, and the worst damn thing is, if I don't stop him now then _I'll_ be interested too.

 

“It's not a word then?” he asked, quickly derailing the Carrot enthusiasm coach before it could carry him away. “I thought it was a word.”

 

“I _think_ it's a signature.” Carrot paused and scratched his head. “It's like a... like a manufacturer's mark, like the ones you get baked in to Dwarf bread. Like our crossbows've got that fiddly little 'Burleigh &Stronginthearm' moniker on it, sir, with all the nice fancy engraving.”

 

“Like an 'I made this, isn't it great' sort of mark?”

 

“Yes, sir. I think so.” Carrot shifted his helmet under his arm a little further, briefly dazzling Vimes as it caught the sunlight through the window and reflected it off the faultlessly-polished surface. “Where did it come from?”

 

“A barrel, captain. A barrel of wine.” And, of course, the barely-cold corpse of a murdered spy, but Assassins were not so crude as to leave _that_ kind of signature, not when it was _far_ flashier and more profitable to leave a business card.

 

Carrot's brow creased as he thought. “Maybe it's from the carpenter? Or maybe the merchant who casked the wine, or maybe the v-vintinter who brewed it?”

 

Vimes sighed, seeing the road stretch out ahead of him plain and long and strewn with horse shit. “I'm going to have to look through all the registered trades in the whole damn city, aren't I?” His elbows bounced off the table, his head in his hands. “Be A Man In Thye Watche, solvin' serious crime by parking your arse firmly on a seat and reading a damn book.”

 

“I'll send for some coffee, shall I?” asked Carrot helpfully as he swung a chair round to sit at the desk. “Then Constable Fiddyment can bring up a city record from downstairs, I have one kept down there, sir, just in case. I bet if you start at Ays and I start at Zeds, we'll get through it in no time.”

 

It was all Vimes could do to wave a hand and grunt an unenthusiastic acknowledgement, well aware that his and Carrot's concepts of 'no time' were probably vastly different beasts.

 

oOo

 

Vetinari looked up from his manuscript as Drumknott entered the Oblong Office and padded towards him noiselessly but with an undeniable sense of urgency.

 

“Is something amiss, Drumknott?”

 

“There is a trader to see you, my lord, who claims to go by the name of Kubo Erabareshi. He appears...” Drumknot paused. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “He appears reasonably irate, my lord.”

 

“Really? Has he expressed a reason for this unhappy state of affairs?”

 

“No, my lord, but he is demanding to speak with you immediately.”

 

The Patrician tapped his thumb against his chin. “Did he appear disagreeable?”

 

“Intensely, my lord.”

 

“Oh? How very troublesome.”

 

“Shall I tell him to go away?”

 

“I doubt that would achieve anything, if he is as upset as you say.” He sighed. “What an inconvenience.” The manuscript was carefully closed and pushed gently along the desk. Drumknott glanced down at it. The legend 'The Arte Of Diplomacie' was inscribed on the front in curling, flamboyant script. The author had signed the name _Yudun Tse_ with a flourish so exaggerated that the smugness had leaked onto the page.

 

“Is it a rare manuscript, my lord?” hazarded the secretary. Vetinari glanced at him thoughtfully.

 

“It is an Agatean court handbook of sorts. I believe this is the only extant copy on this side of the Sto plains.”

 

“It looks to be quite instructive,” Drumknott observed flatly. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a raised voice and what was quite possibly a heavy, meaty thud. Both Vetinari and his clerk ignored this.

 

“In a way, I suppose, though much of it is hardly applicable for a city which does not have an empire to speak of.” The Patrician signed and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “Or, at least, no military empire; it is surprisingly silent on the topic of financial empires. Very well, tell Mr Erabareshi that I will be free to see him in ten minutes, if his issue is truly that urgent.”

 

It was, in fact, only five minutes that Vetinari had to wait before the door to his office slammed open and a furious little man stormed in like a fleshy battering ram. Nature had not been kind to Kubo Erabareshi, who was small and bulbous and had the warty complexion of an embarrassed toad, blessed with a red face and a khaki personality. Vetinari looked up from his papers.

 

“May I help you?” he enquired, quiet but pointed.

 

“You have wronged me!” snapped Erabareshi, throwing the office door shut with force that was normally only seen by an angered Vimes. “Why do you spy on me?!”

 

“I am afraid I do not follow–“

 

“Answer me!”

 

Calmly, Vetinari folded away his paper with the air of one greatly pained by the intrusion. He noted with interest that, rather than making the Nanokatian trader angrier, this seemed to soothe his rage. The blotchy face was returning slowly to a colour more frequently associated with cooked beetroot, and a deeply unsettling look was twisting the stretched features.

 

“I am not threatened by your silence. After all,” Erabareshi spoke with the smirk of a conman and the tone of one on the brink of social suicide, “a voice _like yours_ is more striking when it is loud and desperate. Wouldn't you agree...?”

 

Vetinari steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice, though frostily polite, carried more than a hint of danger.

 

“Unfortunately, I find speaking in implications distressingly irksome1. What is it that you want from me?”

 

Erabareshi approached the desk, all sign of joviality gone from his face. “I want to know why a number of your employees are lying dead in my wine cellar, _my lord_.”

 

“My goodness,” said Vetinari, his tone as blank as his expression. “A number, you say? How mysterious. What makes you think they are Palace employees?”

 

“I am not a fool. They are not Assassins and they are not thieves, and they carry no documents. What else could they be?”

 

“Concerned citizens?” suggested Vetinari.

 

I have a right to my privacy!” said Erabareshi loudly.

 

“Do you indeed? How fascinating.”

 

“I pay taxes to you!”

 

“Remarkable.”

 

“I demand you stop invading my private property!”

 

“ _Demand_ , Mr Erabareshi?”

 

“Yes,” snapped the trader, either missing the warning note in the Patrician's voice or ignoring it completely. “If you do not then I shall call the Watch! I know the laws of this city, I have studied them!”

 

Vetinari smiled icily. “Unfortunately, Mr Erabareshi, I believe that Commander Vimes of the Watch may be more preoccupied with _why_ these cadavers you have found are _dead_ rather than why they were in your shop without your permission. He seems to take murders quite personally, for some reason. I cannot imagine why.”

 

“If you do not comply–”

 

“I would consider very carefully the implications of completing that sentence,” warned the Patrician as he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, “and when you have decided that it would be healthier if you do _not_ finish your line of thought, feel free to leave my office as quickly as you wish. My patience is, sadly, rather limited.”

 

Erabareshi slammed both hands on to Vetinari's desk, narrowly avoiding upsetting the inkwell, and brought his face close in to the Patrician's, a sickly smirk twisting the already unattractive features. Vetinari barely glanced away from his writing as the quiet voice hissed by his ear, “– I could always arrange another little room for you in the plains, just for your pleasu–“

 

He stopped talking suddenly. For a brief moment, the only sound was the light scratching of Vetinari's pen on paper, interrupted once by a muted gurgle.

 

“Oh dear,” said Vetinari calmly as blood splashed over his meticulous notes. He finally looked up, eyebrows raising as he watched the Nanokatian stagger backwards and clasp at his neck with both hands. Expression barely changing, the Patrician reached pale fingers to the elegant dragon-shaped mouthpiece, whistling into it once before speaking.

 

“Ah, Drumknott? Have someone sent up to my office immediately, would you? Mr Erabareshi seems to have accidentally tragically slit his own throat whilst threatening me, though I fear he might yet survive this little mishap if prompt action is taken. Hm? Oh yes, I think it is preferable. Vimes is so enamoured with the idea of _public_ punishment, after all.” He glanced back at the frothing mess which had moments before been Erabareshi's face. “An unfortunate irony, after he had just finished telling me in as many words that he was _not_ a fool.”

 

Vetinari glanced again at the writhing man and sighed impatiently, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Oh, and be good enough to cancel my appointments this afternoon, Drumknott. It appears I am likely to be otherwise engaged.”

 

oOo

 

The dilapidated sign swung slightly in the warm afternoon breeze, the sun shining through a muggy and encroaching humidity which held the promise of storms. Through the chipping wood and peeling paint, a careful observer could just about make out the dregs of the information it was trying desperately to impart. **Erabshi fyne forren wines est**.

 

Vimes glared up at it as though it was of personal offence. Est? Est _what_?

 

Still... it wasn't like the majority of the local populace would be able to read the sign, let alone be inclined to consider the finer points of literary theory. Est was on most shop signs these days, as though the length of time the family had been struggling to survive selling various animal tubes and other sundries was to be worn as a badge of honour. Maybe 'Erabshi' had added it on for completeness.

 

The shop's frontage was like any other on the border of the Shades; narrow, worn, and depressing. Aside from the sign, the only thing to mark this business as different from any of the numerous others were the bars on the window and the sigil carved into the door which bore a striking resemblance to the one Vimes had seen on the booby-trapped barrel. It had taken him the better part of a day to find the symbol in the ledger, but the elation when he had spotted it and it was a _wine cellar_...

 

He snorted. Whoever owned this building _must_ be foreign, if they thought that putting bars on the window would deter crime in the _Shades_.

 

… the shop looked deserted. Vimes pushed the door. It opened with no resistance and, falling back on the old policeman rule of 'walk in like you own the place and shout “stick yer hands in the air this is a bust” with authority', he entered with his crossbow ready.

 

“This is the Watch,” he barked. The empty room gave him no answer, not that there was much answer to give to a statement of obvious fact. “Stick 'em up!” he added, a little less certainly. Still nothing.

 

Feeling a little foolish and quite glad there was no one there to see, Vimes lowered his bow and peered around.

 

It was... dark. Not the half-hearted dark of an unlit room at dusk, nor the stylish dark of an Assassin's favoured workplace, but the sort of recycled, sludgy dark that cultivated itself in forgotten cellars and half-collapsed mineshafts and made anyone who stepped into it instantly feel dirty and exposed. It reminded Vimes of the cottage in the Sto plains.

 

Instinctively, Vimes touched the pommel of his sword with his spare hand before setting a bolt into the crossbow. If he hadn't gone wildly astray in his reasoning, this storage unit, semi-derelict and crumbling on the outskirts of the Shades, was the hiding place of a man who had once got the better of Vetinari himself. There was no such thing as 'too cautious' in a situation like that.

 

The entrance hallway led on to a back door. Quietly, Vimes nudged it open with his shoulder, and it swung on greased hinges to reveal steps downwards to the cellar. As he slowly gained his night eyes, Vimes could just about make out a slight glistening on the steps, and he heard a sound of dripping from somewhere. Dank and dark and wet and mouldy. Lucky that, once again, he had neglected wearing his dress shirt, he supposed.

 

The bottom of the stairs opened out to another long corridor, this one with an oddly scant number of doors leading from it. Aside from the one he had come through, there was nothing but a small shadowed alcove and a single door at the far side.

 

Vimes stared at the alcove suspiciously, swinging his crossbow round to it. Even as he became more and more accustomed to the gloom, the little niche remained almost fully in shadow. It was hardly deep enough to accommodate one person – it had possibly once held a support pillar, or maybe an old ventilation shaft.

 

The shadow moved around him. Before Vimes had time to react, a gloved hand clamped over his mouth with enough force to slam his head back in to the wall just as a lithe, tall body pressed against his own, pushing him into the brickwork of the alcove. Vimes felt another hand close around one of his wrists and hold it fast in a strong grip, striking his hand against the wall and causing him to loose his grip on the crossbow, which fell trapped against his body. His other arm was caught uncomfortably between his chest and his assailant's. The stock of the crossbow dug painfully into his hip and he shifted, both to try and free it and to gauge the likelihood of breaking loose.

 

“Be silent and keep still,” hissed a low voice in his ear.

 

Sod _that_.

 

A growl escaping the back of his throat, Vimes clamped his teeth around the hand covering his mouth and bit down as hard as he could, fighting the urge to gag at the bitter tang of treated leather. He thought he heard a noise that sounded very much like a _tsk_ as the hand that held his wrist fell away. Before he could make the most of his advantage, however, something very thin but very _sharp_ appearing in his field of vision, held loosely but in a manner that suggested the wielder knew exactly where to prod it to make it hurt most. Vimes released the hand from his teeth, watching the glinting bodkin warily.

 

Just as he was preparing to kick his assailant away and take a chance on the blade being dropped in the struggle, he heard a noise from the far end of the corridor. It was a low rumble, swelling in a crescendo as it seemed to get nearer and echoing off the walls.

 

The corridor erupted into a jet of fire, searing flashes in his vision after being so used to the dark. Vimes' captor pressed closer against him, driving him back into the depression of the wall, as the tongues of flame lapped at his cloaked back, propelled as though they were shot from a siege weapon. Vimes' eyes widened as he stared at the man who had him trapped, who, though illuminated as bright as day, still seemed to cast a shadow over himself.

 

As quickly as it had started, the inferno died away, leaving only a stifling heat and the smell of burned oil and singed plaster. Trembling slightly, Vimes fell away from the wall, the crossbow clattering to the ground as Lord Vetinari released him and backed away a pace. As quickly as it had appeared, the thin knife vanished somewhere about the Patrician's person.

 

“What – the – _hell_ are you doing here?!” demanded Vimes, staring at Vetinari. The Patrician's clothing could only be described as drab – loose, formless clothes of nondescript greys and greens – and his face was smeared with soot2. He was wearing a heavy cloak which smouldered where the fire had brushed past it. Vimes thought he recognised it as the same one from the cottage all those months ago.

 

“Saving your life, apparently,” answered Vetinari dryly. “I imagine it has not escaped your notice _now_ that this place is trapped? I have lost three clerks here already.”

 

“And the knife? You held a _knife_ to my face! _Sir_.”

 

“Ah, my apologies. I am aware of your tendency to punch first and ask questions later, your grace.” Vetinari flexed his bitten hand absently. “Unfortunately it seems that, regardless of my foresight, I still misjudged your willingness to resort to your rather formidable instincts.”

 

“I'm not sorry!” Vimes snapped. His arms were shaking. The brightness of the fire still scorched through his vision, the silhouettes vivid as though tattooed on the insides of his closed eyelids and flaring every time he blinked. His shoulders shuddered as he felt the shade of heat against his face. Gods, if Vetinari hadn't been there to push him back–

 

“I did not expect you to be,” said Vetinari calmly.

 

Still glaring, Vimes carefully rubbed his leg where the crossbow's stock had no doubt left a rather impressive bruise. The gods spat in his coffee once more; he couldn't even accuse Vetinari and his infuriatingly perfect bloody timing of interfering with his investigation, not after the Patrician's swift actions had just saved his life. That was exactly the sort of thing that Vetinari would be silently _smug_ about, and refer back to at the least opportune moments.

 

“What are you bloody doing here?” he demanded again. “How long have you known about it?”

 

“Hm? Oh, several days. Of course, I did not wish to become this involved, but some of the traps in here are quite, ah, _inventive_ , and it seems foolish to risk of more of my staff. I must admit, I was _impressed_ by your masterful entry; I'm sure any dangerous criminal present would have immediately been terrified into _sticking 'em up_ , as it were.”

 

“Shut up,” said Vimes, his lip curling and his cheek twitching. Vetinari smiled at him disarmingly, his pale eyes adding a startling splash of colour to his otherwise dark attire. In that moment, Vimes could hardly have hated him more, caught between wanting to punch the Patrician square on the nose and wishing the Disc would put him out of his misery by opening up and swallowing him into its bowels.

 

“ _How?_ How did you know?! _”_

 

The Patrician raised both eyebrows in surprise. “I had a survey conducted to return the names of all Nanokatians in Ankh-Morpork with ties either to wine trading or alchemy. There are, rather unsurprisingly, not that many, and the culprit made himself known to me sooner than even I had anticipated. I fear he was quite put out by my interference in his finances.”

 

Vimes thought back to all those hours spent researching trade marks made by vintners and carpenters and importers. All those hours _wasted_ , it seemed.

 

“Why didn't you tell me _?_ ” he snarled.

 

“I would hardly wish to tread on your toes, Commander.”

 

“ _You mean exactly like you're doing n-_ ”

 

“It seems,” said Vetinari firmly, interrupting what had promised to be an impressive Vimes Rant™, “that we are here with the same goal in mind, and I very much recommend cooperating, Sir Samuel, if you want any hopes of catching your fugitives. Oh,” he held up a thin finger, “and before you protest, I shall take the liberty of pointing out the number of traps on the stairs which I had thankfully disarmed _before_ you came blundering in like a maddened bull, your grace.”

 

Though calm and measured as ever, Vetinari sounded almost angry. This, of course, was nothing in comparison to Vimes, who was almost vibrating with rage and shock and every other emotion that could fit itself into his body.

 

“ _Sir_ ,” he managed to hiss through clenched teeth; it was as much acquiescence as Vetinari was going to get.

 

oOo

 

Progress was slow and meticulous. For the most part, Vimes grudgingly deferred to Vetinari's expertise. When it came to traps, Vimes was inventive in setting up his own around his residence to deter unwanted visitors, but he had little experience in detecting and disarming those set against him; the typical Ankh-Morpork petty criminal he saw on a regular basis was not the sort to think of something as convoluted as _traps_ while running down the street after nicking lead off a roof or pissing against the opera house wall.

 

The storeroom was large but, apart from barrels of various sizes and a single chair and table, empty. It looked as though it had been vacated in a hurry; two candles still burned, giving off a flickering, tallow-stained light.

 

Vimes looked at the conspicuous hole in the wall behind a tun which, from the label, contained Muntabi mead. From the steep slope in the passage beyond, it looked like it led down in to Ankh-Morpork's maze of sewers.

 

“He's not long gone,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “He must've spooked when he heard the noise back there. If we go now I reckon we've got a good chance, otherwise we could lose him down in the sewers forever.”

 

“I concur, your grace. Do you want to go first, or shall I?”

 

Glancing back at the Patrician, Vimes saw through the murk that the man's forehead was damp with sweat and the soot3 on his face was starting to run, revealing flashes of pale skin beneath. Vetinari nonchalantly brushed a streak away from his eyes, one eyebrow raising in question when he caught Vimes' expression.

 

“You're in pain,” observed Vimes astutely.

 

“Are you mothering me, your grace?”

 

Vimes grit his teeth. “I'm expressing _concern_ , you infuriating–“

 

“Irritatingly,” said Vetinari, smoothly cutting across Vimes' self-righteous tirade, “injured muscles have the rather unfortunate habit of atrophy, and overexercise is not necessarily a wise course of action. You did, if I recall correctly, point out that my back was rather severely damaged.” There was a flicker of a wry expression, somewhere between a grimace and a wince. “Unusually, you were not wrong.”

 

There was a pregnant silence which, after an awkward labour, gave birth to a not-quite-cough from Vimes.

 

“Maybe,” he said, his tone remarkably level as he turned away from Vetinari and peered into the tunnel, “you could do what you should have done from the start and _trust me_ to get the damn job done myself.”

 

Behind Vimes' back, Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Vimes didn't have to see it to know.

 

“I don't care what you do,” he lied, convincing but sulky, “but don't get under my feet if you can't look after yourself. I don't want to be picking bits of you up again.”

 

“How considerate.”

 

Well aware that a back-and-forth with Vetinari was both unwinnable and a time-waster, Vimes bit down his retort and crouched to enter the tunnel. Though he didn't look round, the slightest rustle from the room above told him that Vetinari was not following him.

 

As he descended, the mud – or, at least, he _hoped_ it was mud 4 – seemed to creep up his legs, getting thicker and slimier. Gradually, the tunnel widened out until it became much like a river's delta, opening out into a muddy but clearly man-made cistern. Neat rows of pillars lined the long room. A small orange glow flickered at one end.

 

Vimes slid painstakingly down from the tunnel's entrance into the cavern, careful not to splash and give himself away as he sank up to his ankles in grime and filth.

 

… Damn, he achingly wished that despite the late summer heat, he could have had the foresight to wear his boots instead of his sandals. He didn't even want to _think_ about what that squelching between his toes was. The smell alone was almost enough to make his eyes water.

 

Something told him that he would have to bathe in lavender oil for a _week_ to get _this_ odour away from him. Somehow the thought wasn't entirely unattractive.

 

Vimes looked up at the glow. Unlike the eerie bioluminescence of those freakish species of cave moss that people swore they found up in the mountains sometimes, this light bore a solid, if slightly flickery, yellow hue. Unless he was laughably wrong, that meant it was most likely a torch or candle of some kind. Vimes quietly drew his sword, the metal of the blade making barely a sound as it scraped the inside of its scabbard.

 

Moving slowly and carefully to avoid giving himself away by disturbing the goopy mud too much, Vimes crept towards his quarry.

 

Squinting his eyes to protect them from the light as much as possible, Vimes could just about make out the features of a thin face as he approached. He recognised the skinny figure as the same man he had seen leaving the Patrician's office the day the barrels were delivered. What had Vetinari called him? Sloshy Rekin? No... it had definitely had one of those funny little lines above one of the letters. Șōšȟī Rёîkãŋ? No, that was probably a _little_ overkill on the punctuation. It had been a weird name at any rate. Vimes adjusted his grip on his sword and moved closer still.

 

He was struck by how _young_ the Nanokatian was. The man who stood before him could be no older than thirty, and that was even taking the slightly-worn features into account which added an unfair year or two to his face.

 

Reikan apparently hadn't noticed him. It... was difficult to see _what_ he was doing. He appeared to be waiting for someone, or something, but Vimes had the advantage in that, while he had managed to keep some of his night vision by not looking directly at the torch that provided the dull light, Reikan could not see far into the darkness ahead of him.

 

Moving into position, Vimes cautiously assessed the situation. He could see no one else there but, his nasty suspicious mind filled in for him, that _didn't necessarily mean_ that there was no one there. He weighed up his options. If Reikan _was_ waiting for something, it was probably better to act now, before whatever he was waiting for had a chance to appear.

 

Vimes sprang on Reikan, shouting rights at the man as he grabbed the Nanokatian's clothing with his left hand and raised his sword with the other. In the next instant, he had snatched his hand back with a yell of pain and surprise, releasing his grip on the slightly-damp robes. The firelight glinted harshly off the bloodied knife blade. Vimes saw it out of the corner of his eye as he stared at the neat bone-deep slice across the knuckles of four fingers. Reikan struck like a mongoose; fast and efficient.

 

Clutching his injured hand to him, Vimes swiped his sword at Reikan but there was no hope of catching him. The Nanokatian was away through the grime like a startled deer, darting first left, then right, waving his torch at the tunnels until he found one that suited his fancy and disappeared down it. If Vimes had been less distracted, he may have noticed the small, intricate symbol carved into the wall there.

 

Sheathing his sword, Vimes reached into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out the black handkerchief. It was one of Vetinari's; somehow, when his attention had been stolen by how well Vetinari moaned his name, it had found its way into his clothing. For some reason, he had yet to return it. Now, though, he was thankful that he had kept the little square of cloth; it made for a suitable bandage, wrapped carefully over his bleeding fingers and tied securely against his palm.

 

Experimentally, he tried to flex his hand. No, no good – he could _feel_ the sides of the wound tearing further apart, could feel the blood seeping though the handkerchief and trickling down his wrist. Damn, it wasn't ideal to be going after a man as dangerous as that with only one working hand...

 

Vimes glanced up at the tunnels, the light retreating but still clearly visible, and frowned. Could he still...?

 

Unslinging the crossbow carefully as he followed, hasty but quiet, after Reikan, tracking the light but trying not to look too hard at the brightness in case he risked losing his growing night-vision, Vimes held the stock against his right shoulder and rested the bow on his left hand.

 

It... was painful, but doable, and should lend him enough stability to shoot at least. He doubted he would be able to find the dexterity to reload it, though, not in the dark, with his hand sore to the point of uselessness and a murderer bearing down on him.

 

One shot. He'd have to bloody well make it count.

 

There was no real need to keep his night eyes, Vimes realised as he crept carefully through the shadowy tunnels. Reikan was not being careful, holding the torch out in front of him to light his way; a trained monkey with only one eye would have been able to track him.

 

The light sputtered, then flickered up again. Vimes paused. Something was wrong. Reikan had obviously just relit the torch. Did he _want_ to be followed? Every instinct Vimes had was screaming that this was a trap, and that he should turn around now before everything went down the shitter 5.

 

 _That man tried to kill your son_ , his inner rage screamed. Vimes grit his teeth as the hatred bubbled up. Sod it, even if it was a trap, there was no way he could give up here. Not after... everything. If only for Sam and Sybil, safe at a home which had nearly been a grave. If only for Havelock _bloody_ Vetinari and his inability to act like a normal human.

 

The light ahead stopped and sputtered. Moving as silently as he could through the sludge, Vimes awkwardly nocked a bolt into his crossbow and slid carefully along the wall. The flame from the torch was casting deeper shadows than usual, and there was no way Reikan could have any night vision after carrying that thing so far...

 

“You seem to have cornered me, please-man!” said Reikan, who was peering into the darkness some metres to Vimes' left. Vimes slid into a murky corner, aiming his crossbow and the brightly-lit figure, who was standing on a dais raised slightly above the level of sewage. “I had hoped Lord Vetinari might be following me, but I suppose I am not worth his time. But you will do, please-man.”

 

There was nowhere for the Nanokatian to run; he had walked himself straight into a dead end. Vimes couldn't shake the nagging feeling that the man should have been more perturbed by this fact, _especially_ if he had been expecting Vetinari. Still, all it would take now was a twitch of his finger and the ringleader was dead. The one responsible for _all_ of it would be _dead_. _Do it_ , screeched his hatred.

 

Vimes' arm twitched insistently, but his inner policeman – or _please-man_ , as Reikan seemed to want to call him – held him back; how insufferable would Vetinari be if he shot Reikan dead _now_ , after he had given the Patrician such grief for executing the men in the cottage without a trial?

 

“What shall I do, Mr Grace Vimes?” said the heavily-accented voice into the inky blackness, taking advantage of Vimes' hesitation. “You can see me, I cannot see you. I think you are likely to have a bow, and I only have this torch. But I have prepared, please-man.” Reikan smiled slowly and waved the torch back and forth like a dowsing rod. “You overestimate my stupidity. I am standing in oil. If you shoot me, I shall drop the torch into it, or it will fall with my body. This has been leaking into your river for a number of days now, maybe even a full week. I think your river catches fire quite easily without help. . . does it not? And it has been a dry, hot summer for you too... I wonder how many wooden houses line its banks. . .?”

 

Vimes said nothing. The crossbow in his arms suddenly felt like a dead weight, dragging him down as his finger hovered over the trigger. His injured knuckles seemed suddenly all the more painful, the fingers unwieldy as if they were no longer there at all.

 

“So we are in a stand-off, it seems!” called the Nanokatian , still peering out into the shadows. “Kubo was a fool to rush in and confront Vetinari, and all I hope for him now is that his death was quick. See, I have patience, and here I have you.”

 

Quickly, Vimes considered his options. He didn't know who or what a Kubo was, but it didn't seem imminently pressing so was filed to the back of his mind to deal with later. If later existed, of course. With the way Reikan was brandishing that flame, which glinted harshly in his crazed gimlet eyes, Vimes wasn't convinced that 'later' was a concept he had the luxury of.

 

It was doubtful that Reikan would give up his advantage by moving away or extinguishing the torch, because Vimes would shoot him the instant it was safe. There was only one option left; as long as that torch remained alight, he had to get it out of Reikan's hand without risking it fall to the floor.

 

How in the _hell_ was he supposed to do _that_?! He had more chance of hearing a passionate academically-accredited speech on contemporary literature from Fred Colon! Reikan would drop the torch before Vimes was close enough to snatch it, and there was hardly a way to force him to hold on to it at this dista–

 

Vimes stared at the wall. Well. . . he'd been in tougher spots before, right? It _could_ work. . . it was hardly a million-to-one chance, but from his own experience those were overrated in their success. He'd have to keep Reikan talking for the moment but, fortunately, it seemed that the Nanokatian had studied the standard form of narrative villainy favoured by so many of Vimes' previous foes, and he was all too ready to hear the sound of his own voice.

 

“I will take everything from _him_ ,” he was saying softly, “just as he has taken everything from me.”

 

Vimes hesitated again. If he spoke, he may as well attach bright lights and bells to himself and dance around with a musical 'He Is Hidyng Here” sign, but... well, what could Reikan _do_ with that knowledge now he had trapped them both in a stalemate? The most imminently pressing thing was to keep him talking, and hopefully move him away from the damn oil.

 

“Vetinari?” he said, sounding both remarkably calm and thoroughly unimpressed. “You know you had him _tortured_ , right? Forgive me if I don't have much sympathy for you.”

 

Reikan's dark eyes darted round to scan the general area Vimes was standing in. He still couldn't see Vimes, not quite; the light from the flame did not reach that far, and he could not see further into the blackness. Vimes was thankful for this, considering that Reikan still had a knife in his hand. Moving barely more than an inch at a time, he pressed himself up against the pillar, concealing himself further in its shadow. Luckily, the cavernous catacombs bounced his voice back; the echoes made it impossible for Reikan to pinpoint him exactly. It was far more accident than design, but Vimes would take any damn advantage he could get.

 

“A means to an end, as you say in Morporkian,” Reikan said dismissively, “though Kubo told me his screams were most exquisite.”

 

“What _end?”_ growled Vimes through the rising clouds of anger in his vision and the choking bile of disgust in his throat. He knew better than to lose his temper at a silly taunt, but it still sat like a bitter lead ball in the pit of his stomach. The barb cut too close to home to be easily brushed off; it was rare enough for Vetinari to raise his voice even to a shout, but the image of the Patrician stripped and flogged half-dead returned unbidden to Vimes' mind and echoes of phantom cries he had never heard rang around his ears. Vetinari had barely whimpered as his back was torn to shreds. What would it take to make a man like that _scream_?

 

He could not have stopped the biting retort even if he _had_ cared to: “I should have expected as much from people who set fire to their elderly!”

 

“Ah! Politics! See how our practices are twisted to make us seem savage! We burn our dead and our dying. We are a poor land. There is too much gold in the ground for us to farm effectively, we do not have enough food for ourselves in the winter. Our old and our infirm, in the winter, they take it upon themselves to die so that the country may live. We cast them into the fire to honour their last rites, the fire is the centre of existence for a Nanokatian!”

 

A heavy feeling of repulsion rose in Vimes' chest. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare.

 

“That's barbaric!”

 

“No it's not!” retorted Reikan, waving his arms in angry, wild gestures. Vimes' gaze followed the torch closely as the light cut uncomfortably close into his corner. “They are given hemlock to numb the pain, they are near dead when we set the flame! We are not _monsters_!”

 

“Killing old people because they're old and sick sounds pretty far from _civilised_ ,” hissed Vimes.

 

A sickly smirk crept on to Reikan's face. “Civilised? You mean like your Ankh-Morpork, where you execute your criminals by public ritual strangulation so that all can see them twitch? Where you sell souvenirs of the dead for profit? Where men compete to steal resources from each other by any means? Where your thieves and your murderers charge a fee for their crimes and hold such influence besides?” He spat into the oil. “Oh, Mr Duke, we know _civilised_ . The Agateans, they _civilised_ us, whether or not we wished for it.”

 

Vimes stayed silent. He didn't need to speak to maintain the distraction, not now; the Nanokatian was working himself up into what sounded like a full-blown rant.

 

“I petitioned your Lord Vetinari! Ankh-Morpork is powerful, even in our isolation we knew of this city. I begged for him to help us expel our invaders, but he spat in my face!” Reikan sneered. His next words sounded like a quote. “ _It is not possible at this time for Ankh-Morpork to offer the assistance you seek_.”

 

It was definitely a Vetinari answer; cold and clinical and straight to the point, unambiguous yet thoroughly neutral. The Nanokatian did not appear to think this the case, however, as he snarled ugly words through an uglier expression. "What an insult, what a joke! How dare he dismiss us so casually, when we were starving and trampled by the Empire, when we were dying!? What he got was too good for _him_ , Uo should've ripped his arms off and carved out his lying tongue!"

 

Vimes' mouth had dropped open.

 

“ _That's_ what this is about?”

 

It was like a floodgate of confusion had opened to a tidal swell of understanding. Vimes had wondered why Vetinari had not ended his own suffering by agreeing to whatever demands were made, even if it was only a superficial agreement until he was in a better position to strike back. Vetinari had mentioned something about them wanting information, but that had made no sense either – it was hardly as though the Patrician was an unaccomplished liar, and he was more than capable of making up facts to fit his own needs. _Lying_ his way out of trouble with that silver tongue of his should have been easy if the only demand was _information_.

 

But if Nanoka had wanted Ankh-Morpork to go to _war_ with the Empire. . .

 

Well, that was the one thing Vetinari could not give, wasn't it? Ankh-Morpork no longer had any military power, and it was all very well having a financial advantage, but the Agatean lands were all but made of gold, rendering Morporkian coin useless. And yet. . . and yet, if word of this had got out to any of the civic leaders. . . people like Lord Rust and Lord Venturi, always so desperate to prove their good old Ankh-Morpork blood by drubbing Johnny Foreigner, they would have called up the regiments and marched off to a slaughter. They'd done it before, hadn't they? Hell, in the last 'war', that ridiculous farce with Klatch, Vetinari had almost been deposed and exiled a traitor because he _didn't_ try to stab the nearest native.

 

What would have happened, Vimes found himself wondering, if he had not been kidnapped himself? If he hadn't been there for the Patrician to use as a pawn for escape? Would Vetinari have died there in that pit, his last memories the feeling of his body violated by the torturer, and without anyone in the city realising just how much he was giving up for their safety?

 

He'd resented it at the time. Now. . .

 

“Step forward, Mr Duke!” cried Reikan suddenly. “I want to see your face as I burn your city, or are you going to hide like your _rat_ of a master? Just another display of Ankh-Morpork cowardice?”

 

“Tell me,” said Vimes absently, his mind still racing as he wished that the agitated Nanokatian would stop dancing back and forth so excitedly, “is the racial abuse part of the service, or are you going to charge me extra for that?”

 

Reikan, calming slowly but still obviously consumed by emotions simmering like a stew in a stockpot, gave the shadows next to him a very strange look. “You sound like him, you know. You have the same despicable flippancy.”

 

“What?”

 

“Like Vetinari.”

 

Vimes answered automatically. “No I d–“

 

“I suppose a dog will come to be like its master with enough training.”

 

Vimes stared blankly at Reikan who, though he could not clearly see the expression, laughed at the silence.

 

“Does the name anger you, Mr Duke? Is it not true in this city that a dog is a man's best friend as well as his most loyal pet? You do not think you would be pointless without your master?”

 

There wasn't time to even ponder the stupidity of the question because finally – _finally –_ Vimes had his opening. Reikan was holding his hand steady and up away from the oil barrels as he peered into the gloom and hurled meaningless taunts. Vimes wasn't going to waste the chance.

 

His finger twitched against the trigger and the bolt whistled through the air. Reikan screeched as it thudded into his hand with enough force to throw him several feet backwards and he struck the wooden support beam with a very meaty thud.

 

Vimes' heart leapt into his throat as the torch sagged and threatened to fall, but by some blessed miracle he'd managed it. The bolt had struck the base of the torch first, pinning it firmly to the Nanokatian's hand, which in turn was stuck fast to the beam behind. More by accident than design, the length of the bolt meant that the tail end was buried somewhere within the torch's base. There was nothing for Reikan to take hold of, and no way for him to pull himself free without injuring himself further.

 

Even better – and this really was an unexpected bonus – the momentum of the bolt had dragged Reikan back so much that he wasn't even standing in the oil any more. Vimes was sure that, if he got out of this alive and was careful in the telling, he could make it seem like he had planned that too.

 

“Clever,” croaked the Nanokatian through short, ragged breaths. Blood dripped slowly from his wound, mingling with the putrid sludge at his feet. As Vimes approached cautiously, the crossbow cast aside and his sword raised, Reikan feebly tried with the knife still held in his uninjured hand to slash the wood of the torch away, but it remained steadfast, pinned to him like a macabre badge. “It – _ungh –_ is a good shot.” There was another pause as he sucked in a laboured breath. “You have beaten me.”

 

“I'm arresting you,” growled Vimes, a little breathless himself as the adrenaline coursed through him, “for attempted murder, assault on a Watch officer, and crimes against Ankh-Morpork. You have the right,” sod everything, he was going to do this _by the book_ if only to prove a bloody point, “to remain silent. You have the right to legal representation, as long as it's not that bastard Slant. You have the right to resist,” his hand throbbed insistently, “and I will exercise _my_ right to kick you in the privet if you do.”

 

There was a moment of silence. The torch flickered. The Nanokatian raised his eyes, mad and despairing and red with smoke, and whispered slowly, “Nanoka... dies today.”

 

“Is that a statement?“ asked Vimes sarcastically. “Should I get my pocket-book?”

 

Reikan flung his free arm round and, expecting a last-ditch attack, Vimes sprang backwards out of the reach of the glittering knife blade, but the desperate assault never came. With a metallic clang, the weapon was discarded and Reikan was holding the sleeve of his clothing over the dying flame of the torch. Vimes saw it too late.

 

“ _Are you insa_ –”

 

The oil-soaked fabric caught like a dead forest in a hot summer's drought. Reikan shrieked as the fire engulfed his body, the heat of the flames so intense that Vimes, staring in stunned horror, was forced back.

 

The uncomfortably familiar stench of burning flesh once again assaulting his senses, Vimes cast around urgently for something to use to extinguish the raging, screaming inferno, but the only liquid to hand were the barrels of oil and the only material not hidden by armour was already alight. _Damn!_ There was nothing he could do. Again, _nothing_! Vimes cursed himself and his own ineptitude – _why didn't you think to extinguish the torch, you fool, or were you so scared of what might be hiding in the dark? –_ as, once again, all he could do was stand by helplessly and watch another man burn.

 

Finally, the screaming faded away as echoes bounced through the catacombs. The charred, still-twitching figure slumped fully to the ground; the crossbow bolt had burned away entirely, along with most of his hand. Slowly, the flames dwindled to a smoulder but, regrettably, the intense, sickening smell of death and the crackle of semi-cremated bone did not. The smell was enough even to blot out the putrid stench of the sewers. Vimes wished it wasn't.

 

As Vimes turned away shakily, he caught a glimpse of the blackened, disfigured face set in what could almost have been an agonised grin. The slightly-yellowed teeth shone through the crumbling charcoal which had once been a pair of lips.

 

There was no stopping the inevitable brief but unpleasant second encounter with his lunch, his stomach flipping around and tying itself in several knots as he continued to retch violently long after there was nothing left to come up.

 

“Shit.”

 

Ripping his attention away from the charred heap and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Vimes staggered back the way he had come, the unloaded crossbow discarded and his sword held loosely at his side.

 

oOo

 

“He's dead.”

 

Vetinari looked up as the Commander of the Watch entered his office, mercifully without slamming the door off its hinges.

 

“Well done,” was all he said.

 

Looking thoroughly exhausted, Vimes collapsed into one of the chairs at the desk and pushed some of his greying hair from his eyes with his right hand. His left was swathed in white bandages. Though he was not a medical man, and had enough trouble working out the differences between various squiggly bits in some of his meals, Vimes had enough common sense to know that he did not want an open wound festering with whatever poison and city cast-off might be lurking in the sewers. His very first stop, before he had even gone home to change and wash himself clean of the dregs of his ordeal, had been to see Igor, and to get his cut fingers stitched up and properly dressed. The sun had already set by the time he made his way to the Palace to make his report.

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. The bright, stark white of the fresh bandage had not escaped his attention.

 

“You appear to have had a trying time of it, Sir Samuel. I see that you are wounded. Nothing too serious, I hope?”

 

Vimes threw the black handkerchief he had used as a tourniquet on to the desk. It was still soaked with his blood. Vetinari looked at it and back up quizzically.

 

“You didn't tell me he was crazy.” Vimes sagged forward. His entire body felt as though it was being dragged down to the floor. Even the air felt heavy.

 

“I was not aware that he was. Desperate and grief-stricken perhaps, and ruthless certainly, but I doubt very much that I should consider him insane.”

 

“Even if he set himself on fire?”

 

There was silence. After several seconds, Vimes raised his head to see Vetinari with his hands clasped and his chin rested upon them.

 

“What a poetic turn of events,” mused the Patrician, watching one of the candles in its holder as it dripped wax onto his desk. “My sympathies to the man; it is not the most enjoyable of experiences.”

 

“He told me what they wanted. Why they did what they did to you.”

 

Again, the silence dragged.

 

“I fear,” said Vetinari thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on the flickering candle, “that, were I to be in a similar position, I would have acted in much the same manner.”

 

“No,” Vimes snapped instantly. The word left his mouth without any apparent intervention from his brain, but he had rarely been more sure of anything.

 

It earned him a sharp glance from the Patrician. “This coming from the same man who was so quick to accuse me of orchestrating the obliteration of an entire nation?”

  
“That's–“

 

Vetinari stared at Vimes with raised eyebrows. The look would have corroded steel, but Vimes shook his head.

 

“No,” he repeated. “You're a _bastard_ , not a _psychopath_.”

 

“Your faith in me is astounding.”

 

The words were plain and simple and spoken with very little in the way of inflection, but Vimes thought he caught the hint of a sigh at the end. He looked away uncomfortably, staring instead at the handkerchief on the polished desk. A little bit of blood had transferred onto the wood and he glared at it, as though it was responsible for the muted anger he wanted to feel but could not find.

 

“Who's Kubo?” he asked finally. “That name came up a lot. Apparently he mentioned you screaming.”

 

“Hm?” Vetinari ignored the pointed look Vimes sent him, seemingly developing selective deafness and conveniently not hearing the latter remark. “I believe you are referring to Kubo Erabareshi. He is the proprietor of the premises where we had our little excursion earlier, and he is currently in my custody.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Congratulations as well then, I think,” said Vetinari, flashing one of his lightning smiles at Vimes, “on apprehending the man who murdered Saltire Dance. A job very well completed, your grace.”

 

“I haven't apprehended anyone,” said Vimes woodenly. “ _You_ imprisoned the winemaker, and the other one's dead.”

 

“I did nothing of the sort. Mr Erabareshi simply had a slight mishap in my office and is currently in surgery.”

 

Vimes watched Vetinari carefully. The Patrician's face gave nothing away.

 

“Surgery?”

 

"Unfortunately he had a rather serious stab wound to his neck, though, unless I am very much mistaken, nothing that should prove immediately fatal.”

 

“You stabbed him,” translated Vimes.

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “It is quite possible he stabbed himself, Sir Samuel. I was merely engaged in conversation with him at the time.”

 

“Who was holding the knife?”

 

“I was holding a pen.”

 

“You stabbed him with a _pen_?”

 

“I would very much appreciate, your grace,” said the Patrician solemnly, with all the calm of an icebound lake, “if you would refrain from putting words in my mouth.”

 

Vimes frowned. “Sorry, _sir_ , but I find it a little hard to believe that a man would try to cut his own head off in the middle of a conversation with you. Though he has my _utter heartfelt sympathies_ if that's actually what happened, 'cos gods know I've bloody considered offing myself enough times in this damn room.”

 

Vetinari smiled at him. “How good that is to know, Vimes.”

 

“So what were you talking about? It can't have been wine, you hardly ever drink anything, and I can't imagine he came to tell you he'd sent me surprise explosives.”

 

“Interestingly,” replied the Patrician calmly, “he was offering me a stay in a darkened room, as he was quite taken with my enjoyment of my last venture. I am afraid to say I rather took that as a threat, though I doubt I would be wrong to suggest it was intended as such.”

 

The pale blue eyes lingered on Vimes, whose mouth had fallen open slightly. Vetinari sighed as he returned to his desk, seating himself in front of his papers and interlocking his fingers thoughtfully. “I am not in the habit of petty revenges, but I must admit that I was quite unable to contain myself in the presence of Mr Erabareshi. I do not feel that my reaction was disproportionate,” and here he shot another quizzical look at Vimes, who worked his mouth like a gaping fish without saying a word, “but I am clearly incapable of unbiased judgement in this instant and must rely, as ever, on the Commander of the Watch to make sure that the law is upheld.”

 

“If you want me to execute him,” growled Vimes, mercifully finding his voice in time to save what little of his dignity remained, “why don't you just ask?”

 

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were quite taken with the idea of a fair trial, your grace? It would hardly be fair if I _told_ you the outcome beforehand.”

 

“Right,” growled Vimes, eyes narrowing, “but what do you want me to _charge_ him with, then? I can't bloody charge him with assaulting _you_ because _he's_ come off worse, and Suicide By Patrician is not a crime!”

 

The Patrician gave this some thought, pressing his fingertips together.

 

“I think,” he said at last, “that you might try kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault with intent and... yes, and attempt murder.”

 

“Was Erabi – Ebash – was the winemaker there, then? At the cottage?”

 

“From what has been said, I see no reason not to infer that he was. He has hardly made a secret of it.”

 

“But you must have _seen_ him! Didn't you recognise him? Yes it was dark and the robes were good but they didn't hide their faces _that_ much!” Vimes railed at the questioning look the Patrician gave him. “Don't look at me like that, you must have recognised him if he was!”

 

“Unfortunately,” said Lord Vetinari quietly, “I think I spent much of the first day hooded.” He touched his neck almost absently with one long finger, as though to soothe an ache that was not there. “I could see nothing.”

 

“Hooded?” Vimes repeated blankly. Vetinari smiled at him but, once again, the expression was utterly devoid of humour. Vimes found it sickening.

  
“Fitted, as it were, with a hood. It was quite possibly a burlap sack; it certainly smelled like one. I admit to becoming fairly defensive when I first woke, and I do have some recollection of biting at least one man, who, I must say, had a very distinct taste of clove. The hood was a measure that remained in place until I became more docile, which was perhaps far sooner than it ought to have been." There was a twisted, almost self-deprecating expression, the thin face distorted by some fleeting emotion unrecognisable to Vimes. "Thankfully,” and here he touched his neck again, “the fastening was not too tight.”

 

“Hooded,” said Vimes again, his voice still painfully flat.

 

“It appears I neglected to mention it?”

 

“Like most bloody things!” Vimes paused, still frowning, before finally passing his good hand over his eyes and gripping his forehead. “I – damn. Look, it – I'm _sorry_.”

 

Lord Vetinari raised his eyebrows.

 

It was... difficult to fight the feeling of helplessness, Vimes thought. By instinct he wanted to say something, if only to fill the silence, but no words seemed adequate. He could do nothing when he was ignorant, that was a given, but even when he _knew_ he could still do _nothing_. The thought of the Patrician, bound and muzzled like an animal, both made his blood boil and chilled him to the bone.

 

“I'm going to your room,” he snapped, turning away to hide the ugly look he was sure he could not hold back. “You're welcome to join me!”

 

A very odd expression crossed Lord Vetinari's face; it looked as though he was trying his hardest not to smile. “My word, Sir Samuel, are you propositioning me?”

 

“Is it that bloody obvious?” Vimes snarled, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him so hard that the wood by the handle splintered.

 

oOo

 

Almost immediately upon entering the Horrible Green Bedchamber, barely giving Vetinari a chance to close the door behind them, Vimes grabbed the Patrician by the collar of his black robes and pulled them both backwards, kissing him fiercely. As foolish as it seemed, he was overcome with the _need_ to feel Vetinari alive, to feel the Patrician's warm skin and most-definitely-there pulse, to hear the slight intake of breath as Vimes crushed their lips together.

 

His kissing was clumsy and inept and utterly ungraceful, but Lord Vetinari seemed not to mind in the slightest as he let himself be pulled. Vimes' calves hit the side of the bed and he fell onto his back on top of the covers, pulling Vetinari on top of him.

 

Feeling the Patrician's tongue against his, Vimes fumbled with his good hand, trying to undo the complicated array of buttons on the heavy overshirt the Patrician insisted on wearing in office. He could feel Vetinari's nimble fingers against his shirt, just beneath his armour; the other arm was supporting the Patrician against the bed so he was not lying flush against his Watchman. One of Vimes' calloused hands groped roughly beneath Vetinari's shirt, round to his back where, even months later, the horribly deep ridges still cruelly marred the twisted muscle; Vimes felt Vetinari shudder just the barest amount as he traced one with his forefinger.

 

Finally, slightly breathless and with his shirt half-undone to expose his narrow chest, Vetinari pulled away and rose to his feet. He considered Vimes thoughtfully as Vimes sat up, his legs still dangling off the edge of the bed.

 

“I have told you before,” he said finally, in a voice that was both quiet and powerful, “that personal is not the same as important. You are a very dangerous man to me, Sir Samuel, in that I have made the mistake of seeing you as both.”

 

A thrill raced through Vimes' chest, but before he could answer, or even move, Vetinari was sliding down his body to kneel in front of him. The nimble fingers made short work of his trousers, and Vimes tilted his hips up to allow better access.

 

Hissing a short, sharp curse, Vimes threaded the fingers of both hands through the Patrician's dark hair as he felt himself enveloped by that clever mouth and slowly teased to hardness. He bit down on a heady moan as one of those damn hands moved, grasping the base of his growing erection and teasing the sensitive skin next to his balls.

 

“This is almost worth that scum's taunts,” a laugh that was more like a gasp, “though I should be used to being your dog by now. . .” Panting as though he had just run the length of the city, Vimes let his head fall back, eyes closed. The tendrils of ecstasy were starting to reach for him, until –

 

“ _Nngh_ – dammit, don't _stop.”_ The feeble agonised protest fell on deaf ears; Vetinari had already pulled away, looking faintly amused.

 

“Or perhaps, considering the rumours of the Agataen fondness for _eating_ their dogs, he was making an astute observation?”

 

Vimes looked down at Lord Vetinari's head between his legs and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the Patrician of Ankh-sodding-Morpork was cracking witty one-liners while very nearly having a dick in his mouth. The fact that he found the sight of Vetinari kneeling in front of him so erotic was only another distraction.

 

Desire pulsed through him. With another growl of lust, his good hand tangling a fistful of Vetinari's hair in its grip, Vimes bucked his hips once. Vetinari raised an eyebrow at the silent demand and slid back up, pressing Vimes down by the shoulder with deceptive strength. Vimes groaned as the Patrician's hand ran up his thigh. If the hardness pressing against his leg was anything to judge by, Vetinari was just as desperate as him, but was doing a far finer job of hiding it.

 

Vetinari's lips hovered over his, eagerly swallowing the breathy moans as they escaped. Vimes bucked again, but the Patrician was like an iron girder pinning him down, and he settled instead for gripping the narrow shoulders as tightly as he dared. Finally, achingly, one of those slender hands closed firmly around his cock and began a frustratingly slow yet tantalisingly perfect rhythm.

 

Sam Vimes groaned loudly again as, for the very satisfactory present, his world narrowed down to Vetinari's touch and fiercely possessive kisses.

 

The candles guttered lower, unheeded. Outside, a light mist rose from the river as the first rains of autumn began to fall.

 

* * *

 

 

 

1This said, naturally, by a man who had made an art form of speaking in implications.

2 Probably soot.

3 Hopefully soot.

4 It was definitely not mud.

5 Ignoring, of course, that he was currently wading through ankle-deep sewage and was thus, on a technicality, already down a shitter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Them Ankh-Morpork sewers have sure seen some shit, eh.  
> These chapters keep getting longer and I just ┻━┻ ︵ ¯\ (ツ)/¯ ︵ ┻━┻
> 
> Everything is a reference. I am a nerd.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Considerable Predicament](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6671689) by [ewela1130](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewela1130/pseuds/ewela1130)




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